This is dangerous. She lives in my house. Sleeps in the room down the hall. Every rule I’ve lived by lines up and tells me to back the hell off.
But Ican't.
The water tracks down my chest, my ribs, my stomach. Steam clouds around me until the world narrows to heat and skin and pulse.
Her scent won’t let go, humming low and steady, tugging at me like a hook set deep.
Pack win.
Alpha high.
Omega under my roof.
And there’s nowhere for the instinct to go.
I’ve been behaving. I’ve been holding the line. I’ve done everything right. But my body doesn’t know what to do with this muchwant—not just for her, but theclaimof her. The pack-tie of it. It doesn’t know where to put the excess, and keeps reaching for her, again and again, instinct already deciding something I haven’t given permission for.
My head falls forward until my forehead hits the tile. Water pounds down over me, sliding through my hair and down my neck, tracing the lines of muscle and old scars, running over my shoulders and chest and stomach before streaming between my feet and vanishing down the drain.
I try not to think about her, but she’s already there; lurking just behind my closed eyes and pressed into the backs of my thoughts.
My breathing stumbles again, catching low in my chest, and this time, I don’t stop it.
She’s in front of me, as vivid as if I’d reached out and pulled her into the shower. Not some fantasy stand-in, but exactly how shewas hours ago: team jacket zipped halfway up, sleeves tugged over her hands, shoulders tense but chin high.
My hand presses harder against the tile, bracing. Heat coils tight and low in my abdomen as my imagination slides into darker, deeper territory.
That jacket she wears—gone.
Her hands—bare, curled against my chest, clinging.
Her scent—thicker, spicier, seeping into every breath I take.
I picture her body under mine; the warmth of her skin, and the way she’d react if I let go of the leash. The sounds she’d make if I pushed her closer, held her tighter, gave in to the part of me that hasn’t stopped reaching for her since the moment I first scented her.
And then I'm not just picturing it: I swear, I can feel her beneath me—naked and slick and flushed. I watch as her mouth falls open when I bury myself deep, and she claws at the sheets like she needs to be held down.
I do. Gladly. I pin her and fuck her full and tell her she’s mine like my blood believes it.
My cock twitches, hard and heavy, and the ache that’s been humming through me all night finally spikes, flooding every nerve with raw, instinctive need.
I reach for myself with a trembling hand, gripping tight at the base and dragging upward in a slow, deliberate stroke. The sensation jolts through me: hot, electric, and almost too much. I let my head fall back, eyes fluttering closed, the tile cool against my neck while the water streams down over me.
I picture pushing her harder—letting my weight come down fully and gripping her by the back of the neck, rutting into her until she’s wrecked and soaked and begging for it.
“You can take it,” I’d growl against her skin. “You’re an omega. You’re mine.”
My cock jerks in my hand, and I grip myself tight.
It’s not gentle. It’s not supposed to be.
And then, something shifts. Instinct widening the lens.
Suddenly, I’m not the only one there.
Connor’s laugh echoes faintly, the kind of low, teasing sound he makes when he’s got someone flustered and exactly where he wants them. He’d crowd in behind her without hesitation, cock rubbing between her cheeks, dragging his mouth down her spine, groaning like a fucking animal when she moaned his name.
He’d fuck her throat while I fucked her cunt. Hold her head still and whisper the filthiest shit.
