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My scars tingle and burn.
Not in control.
Am I leaking scent?
Shitshitshit.
I can’t even feel the rope.
But Bish and Dutch are still standing. Still pumping out syrupy sex pheromones that punch down my throat.
I haven’t ruined anything. Yet.
Somehow, I find my feet, socks, heels, and manage a backward step.
Bish knocks Dutch to the desk and forces his slick fingers into Dutch’s ready mouth.
Dutch sucks what he’s given.
His sex-hazed eyes stay locked on me.
“Let me finish, and I’ll be right with you. Unless you’d like to join?” Bishop flashes a help-yourself smile.
Air hits the tip of my numbed nose, so I know I’m still breathing. “I have to…”
Sprint through a human carwash.
Put a bag over my head.
Escape to anywhere but here.
“Wait. Solly. Mate!” Dutch gets louder as I flee. His ragged snarl beats me to the hall. “Asshole! Stop fucking hammering my spot when I’m trying to declare my love.”
“Your asshole likes hammering.” The sound of slapping skin follows me as Bishop proves his point.
When I stumble from the hallway like a cooked lobster, slamming the door behind, the secretary arches a brow. “Were they busy?”
I double-check that the door is locked.
Don’t want some strange omega scenting…that.
But the office must have lab-quality ventilation. Not a whiff of mimosa brunch hints how busy the Meadows are inside.
Busy as my heart, pumping sludge.
Not knowing where to go, where or even who I am, I take cover in the private elevator and spam the close button.
I don’t know what happened to my sandwich.
Now I’m hungry for something else.
Peach-stuffed pancakes.
Bacon and champagne.
I’m lucky the elevator has dark panels instead of mirrors.
I can’t imagine my face.
