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His hands then glide up my back, unhitching my bra with a slow, deliberate movement. It feels like the most exquisite torture until the damn thing is off. With a smile, he tosses it aside.
He hands me a paintbrush and then selects one for himself. The anticipation is palpable.
Nibbling on my lip, I try to concentrate on Ashton’s body, on the tattoo beneath my brush, but this is swiftly becoming one of the most intense moments of my life. I don’t want to rush it. I want to savor every brush stroke, every glide of paint across his skin.
I uncork the purple paint and dip my brush in. As I glide it over a suction cup of the octopus tattoo, goosebumps rippleoutward from where my brush touches his skin. Ashton pauses, sitting up straight, his eyes following each of my strokes.
“Is it cold?” I ask, looking up at him.
“Yes,” he replies. With trembling fingers, he dips his brush into the green paint and sweeps it along the underside of my breast.
A sharp exhale escapes me as my eyes flutter shut, and my nipples harden in response. I arch my back toward him, my entire body quivering with pleasure.
When I slowly open my eyes, Ashton’s smirking face greets me. “This is some bullshit,” I mutter, but it only makes him laugh, a sound as sweet as he is.
“Oh, really? And why’s that, molasses munchkin?” he teases, his focus returning to my breast. He swipes his brush with an artist’s precision I could never replicate.
“The feel of the brush…” I shiver, my body reacting so strongly to his touch that I can’t finish my sentence. “I need a distraction.”
“When was the last time you sat down with clay?” he asks, his brush strokes steady and confident.
Shaking slightly, I continue to color in his tattoo, grateful for the distraction. The thickening scent of my slick fills the air, an unmistakable sign of my state. “That was the last time,” I murmur.
He pulls back, his gaze questioning. “Why?” he asks.
I shrug, deciding to be honest. “I felt guilty, in a way. My sister had just been found alive but broken and sent off to the institute. Her supposed mate had found a pack that didn’t include her, choosing another instead. It rocked my world. I was racked with guilt because there she was, suffering, while I was in the sanctuary, living a stable life and thriving in my own way.”
He hums thoughtfully, momentarily letting silence stretch between us. “Do you mind telling me why it affected you so deeply?”
As I roll the purple paint over another little suction cup that’s actually his nipple, I can’t help but smirk at his involuntary shudder. “Scent matches, fated mates... It all started to feel like bullshit to me. She said he was a perfect scent match, as was his pack, but…” I pause, dipping my brush in the paint and meeting his eyes. “So was Sawyer.”
“Ah,” he whispers, understanding dawning in his eyes.
My voice takes on a sour note. “You get it, right? If an omega and a gamma can both be a scent match to a single pack, does that mean multiple packs could be a perfect match? If that’s true, then we’ve got it all wrong.”
“I think we did get it wrong,” he admits, surprising me. “Gammas are essentially weaker omegas, hormonally speaking, but the right match can trigger all the hormones they need to become an omega. All they need is a kickstart. I actually like the idea of having options.”
His words stir something in me. “But what if there’s a gamma out there who’s your perfect match?” I ask, my insecurities seeping through.
Ashton doesn’t miss a beat. “Seraphina, there might be other scent matches out there in the world, but they aren’t you. No one will ever compare to you. I’ll only ever want you.”
His words send a wave of warmth through me, dissolving my insecurities in an instant.
“I once got Grace to talk after her attack,” he says, and I brace myself, unsure where this is heading. “She said the alpha was a perfect match.” My mouth falls open in shock. “I like the idea of multiple matches because it gives me hope—hope that, somewhere in the world, there’s a pack that can bring her back to us. We used to think her mind would eventually heal. When Maxleft on his first expedition, he left her home with their parents. When Avery and I stopped to check in, she hadn’t eaten in days. It was then we realized the depth of her despair. Max called the institute, knowing someone there could watch her when he can’t.”
My heart aches as I understand his perspective. All this time, I’ve been so wrapped up in my own feelings, not seeing the bigger picture. “That makes perfect sense,” I admit softly.
“I hope, one day, we can introduce her to different scents and maybe find one that helps ground her,” he confesses. “I just want my sister back.”
His words hit me hard. He’s always seen Grace as a sister, and here I was, consumed by my own concerns. “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling guilty.
“For what?” he asks, changing his color to a deeper green.
“For being selfish, worrying that you didn’t want me.”
“Your feelings are valid, Seraphina. Many omegas would feel the same, and that’s okay,” he reassures me, gliding the brush along the underside of my breast, sending waves of sensation through me. “Choice is what matters.”
I nod, letting silence envelop us as we continue painting.
