I love it. I fucking love that she's not just going along with this passively. She's choosing to play. Choosing to rebel against whatever hold her past has on her.
She nods slowly, and then?—
She leans in close, her breath ghosting across my lips as she whispers, "I guess it would be good for me to reward Santa for being good."
Oh, she's playing the game. She's not just going along—she's actively participating. Making it her choice. Taking control even while letting me lead.
Fucking perfect.
I grin—can't help it—and then I'm kissing her.
The touch is electrifying.
That's the only word for it. The moment my lips meet hers, it's like touching a live wire. Every nerve ending in my body lights up at once, awareness flooding through me so intense it'salmost painful. My vision sharpens. My hearing narrows down to just the sound of her breathing, her heartbeat, the small sounds she makes. Everything else—the bar noise, the music, the people—fades into white static.
Her lips are soft—impossibly, ridiculously soft—and sweet like spun sugar dissolving on my tongue. She tastes like vanilla and caramel and something uniquely her, something that makes me want to devour her whole, to consume her until I can't tell where I end and she begins.
A simple kiss. It should be simple. Just a press of lips to prove a point to an asshole Alpha who doesn't matter. A performance. A show.
But I can't help but dominate.
It's in my nature. The need to claim, to possess, to make absolutely fucking clear that she's mine. The alcohol in my system has burned away my usual restraint, leaving only instinct and want.
My hand slides from her chin to cup the back of her neck, fingers threading into the soft synthetic hair of her wig, holding her exactly where I want her. My other hand tightens on her thigh, fingers digging in through the velvet just enough to make her gasp against my mouth—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who's in control right now.
And when she gasps—that small, sweet intake of breath—I take advantage, deepening the kiss. My tongue slides against hers, tasting, exploring, claiming every inch of her mouth like I have the right to it. She makes a sound in the back of her throat—surprise and pleasure mixed together in a way that's absolutely intoxicating—and it goes straight to my cock, making me hard enough that it's actually painful.
She's not passive. Thank fuck, she's not passive. She's not just letting me kiss her like some helpless Omega who doesn'tknow what she wants. She's kissing me back with an enthusiasm that makes my head spin and my control slip even further.
Her lips move against mine with growing confidence, exploratory and eager. Her tongue dances with mine, matching my aggression with her own playfulness. She's done this before—I can tell from the way she moves, the way she knows how to angle her head, how to use her teeth just barely against my bottom lip—but never quite like this. There's a sense of discovery in the way she responds, like she's finding out something new about herself in real-time.
I want to pin her down. Want to lay her out on this bar and explore every inch of her body with my mouth. Want to find out what other sounds she makes, what makes her gasp and moan and beg. Want to discover if she tastes this sweet everywhere or if different parts of her have different flavors.
The kiss is nothing close to PG-13. It's raw and sloppy and total rated-R madness. The kind of kiss that should probably be illegal in public, that makes people look away or stare depending on their comfort level. The kind that's messy and desperate and so fucking good it feels like a religious experience.
I can taste her sweetness mixed with the salt of nervous sweat, can smell how her arousal spikes with every second we're connected. The vanilla in her scent caramelizes hotter, burning sweeter, turning into something that makes my mouth water and my Alpha instincts roar with satisfaction. My cock is throbbing, pressed uncomfortably against my jeans, and I know she can feel it because she's sitting right on top of me.
Her fingers curl into my henley, gripping the fabric like she needs something to anchor herself to reality. Her body melts against mine, soft and pliant and so perfectly responsive that I forget we're in a bar. Forget there are people watching—including the asshole we're supposed to be proving something to. Forget everything except the taste of her mouth and the feelof her in my arms and the way she makes these small, needy sounds that drive me absolutely insane.
For a moment—just a moment—I can actually believe she's ours. That this Omega sitting perfectly on my knee, wet with slick, looking like the perfect dessert in my tipsy state, could actually be ours for the steal.
I've never yearned for someone like this. Never wanted anything as badly as I want her to be my perfect Christmas present. To walk downstairs on Christmas morning and find her under the tree with a bow, smiling that bright smile, choosing us the way we're choosing her.
It's insane. I don't even know her name. But my body knows her. My Alpha knows her. Something deep and primal recognizes her as ours.
I break the kiss slowly, reluctantly, pulling back just enough to see her face.
She's breathless. Her chest heaving, lips swollen and red from my mouth, cheeks flushed that beautiful shade of pink that I want to see every day for the rest of my life. The silver wig is slightly mussed, and those blue contacts make her eyes look dazed and dreamy.
Gorgeous. Absolutely fucking gorgeous. And mine. Ours. Whatever claim we're making right now, I'm all in.
I lean in close, my lips brushing the shell of her ear as I whisper, "Why don't we go to the back, hmm? While my boys Nash and Grayson handle our friend Jasper there. Make sure he goes back to his table like a good, cooperative Alpha."
She stutters, "O-okay."
Her eyes slide to Marcus—the bar owner who's been watching this whole interaction with barely concealed amusement. He's grinning like Christmas came early, his beard jingling with those ridiculous bells.
"Actually, Ms. Claus," Marcus says, his voice carrying across the bar with perfect timing, "you can go on your hour break now."
