Fuck…an Alpha who will fight for me?
Why does that dare make me horny just by the thought of it?
His arm tightens around my waist—protective, possessive in a way that should probably bother me but doesn't. His hand rests just above my hip, his thumb brushing against my ribs through the velvet of my costume.
"Aren't you uncomfortable?" I ask, my voice coming out smaller than intended. "I probably smell bad. Bar sweat and spilled beer and?—"
He leans in then, his nose brushing against the side of my neck where my scent gland is.
I feel him inhale slowly, deliberately, and my entire body goes rigid with awareness.
"You smell sweet as fuck, Ms. Claus," he whispers against my skin, his breath hot. "Like a cupcake I'd gladly eat."
Oh my god. Oh my GOD. Did he just—is he—I can't breathe. I literally cannot breathe. My face is on fire. My whole body is on fire. I'm going to combust right here in the middle of the bar.
We share a look—his eyes dark with interest, mine probably wide with shock and arousal—and I'm fighting so hard to keep my body under control. Because I can feel it happening. The slick. The way my body is responding to his proximity, his scent, his words.
If I gush any more slick, everyone in this bar is going to smell my arousal. The whole place will reek of turned-on Omega, and I'll never be able to show my face here again.
"I should—" I clear my throat, trying desperately to find my voice. "I should probably remind you that I don't do... uh... services like that. This is a bar, not a?—"
He grins, and it transforms his entire face from dangerous to devastating.
"Good. I'd rather take you out on a proper date before we do anything else. But it's getting hard to think straight when I'm relatively tipsy and can smell just how much I'm affecting you, sweet ladybug."
Ladybug. He called me sweet ladybug. That's... that's actually adorable.
Why is the intimidating veteran Alpha being adorable?
I'm burning up. My skin feels too tight. My heart is doing acrobatics in my chest. And he leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he whispers, "Am I the one making you wet, little ladybug?"
I cannot answer that question. If I answer that question, I will spontaneously combust and die right here, and they'll have to scrape what's left of me off this barstool.
My mouth opens, but no words come out.
Just a small, strangled sound that could be agreement or protest or both.
"Oi!"
The voice cuts through our moment like a knife.
Aggressive. Entitled. Familiar.
I look up to find Jasper standing near us, his face flushed with alcohol and irritation. The sharp citrus of his scent is spiked with anger now, cutting through the pleasant haze of cedar and smoke.
"I demanded service," Jasper says, his words slightly slurred. "She shouldn't be flaunting around with this half-ass Santa who can barely wear his hat properly. Get over here and do your job.”
Oh no, he's going to cause a scene. He's going to get violent. I've seen Jasper drunk before, and it never ends well.
The Alpha beneath me chuckles—low and dangerous, with absolutely zero fear.
"Well, sorry bud, but she's my Omega. So obviously I get special dibs on what's mine."
"You shouldn't let them talk to you like that," he murmurs, keeping his voice low enough that only I can hear. His thumb brushes against my ribs through the velvet, a small gesture of comfort. "You deserve better than that shit."
I turn slightly to look at him, my eyes slightly wide with surprise and something that hopefully looks like gratitude.
"It's complicated," I say softly.
