Naughty List Approved
~REVERIE~
What the hell was I thinking?
The supply closet. THE SUPPLY CLOSET. Of all the places I could have suggested—the office with its semi-professional desk, the break room with its somewhat comfortable couch, even just standing in the hallway where we could pretend to have a normal conversation—I said the supply closet. The most cliché, obvious, 'we're definitely about to do something we shouldn't' location possible.
Like some kind of romance novel come to life. Like I'm actively trying to become tomorrow's small-town gossip headline: 'Local Omega in Suspicious Supply Closet Encounter with Unknown Alpha.' Hazel is going to have a field day with this. She's going to make me explain everything in excruciating detail while she lives vicariously through my poor life choices.
The Alpha—whose name I still don't know, which is definitely a problem I should address—carries me down the hallway like I weigh nothing. His arms are solid and warm around me, muscles flexing with each step but showing no strainwhatsoever. His chest is firm against my side, and I can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the fabric of his henley. Strong. Controlled. Confident.
The dog tags around his neck clink softly with each step, a metallic whisper that reminds me he's seen combat. Been in situations I can't even imagine. The Santa hat is still perched ridiculously on his head, somehow making him look less threatening even though I'm acutely aware of how dangerous he could be if he wanted to.
I'm literally being carried to a supply closet by a hot military Alpha Santa I just met less than an hour ago. This is insane. This is impulsive. This is possibly the most reckless thing I've done since... well, since leaving Kael's pack with nothing but a suitcase, a dream, and $47 in my checking account.
But also? I can't deny that whole interaction back at the bar—being around three incredibly hot Alphas who just publicly claimed me as theirs, fake or not—is driving my hormones absolutely mad. Or maybe it's not my hormones. Maybe it's just my pussy, which is currently begging for stimulation in a way that's honestly embarrassing and probably biologically unfair.
My thighs are slick with arousal, the dampness soaking through my panties and definitely reaching my pantyhose at this point. I can feel it—the wet slide of fabric against sensitive skin, the heat pooling between my legs, the way my body is preparing itself for something it wants desperately. The supply closet is going to smell like turned-on Omega the second we walk in. There's no hiding it. No pretending I'm not affected.
Three Alphas. THREE. The gorgeous bookstore Alpha with his maple-honey scent and kind eyes who bought me books without judgment. Nash with his motor oil and leather and that smirk that makes my stomach flip and my brain short-circuit. And now this veteran Santa with his cedar-smoke scentand hands that know exactly where to touch me, how much pressure to apply, when to be gentle and when to be possessive.
The mere imaginative thought of them being interested enough to fake a claim publicly, to stand up to Jasper and his asshole friends who were actively mocking me, to protect me even though they barely know me beyond a few brief encounters—it's doing things to my brain chemistry that probably aren't healthy. Dopamine and oxytocin and probably about twelve other neurotransmitters all firing at once. And definitely doing things to my body that are extremely distracting and making it hard to think about anything except what could happen in that supply closet.
What would it be like? Having three Alphas who actually want me? Not as some obligation or charity case, but because they genuinely found me attractive and interesting? Three sets of hands touching me. Three different scents mixing with mine. Three voices telling me I'm beautiful instead of one voice telling me I'm not enough.
Stop. Don't get ahead of yourself. This is probably just a one-time thing. A heat-of-the-moment protection claim that they'll retract tomorrow. Don't build castles in the sky when you're barely keeping your feet on the ground.
I watch as he navigates the hallway with practiced ease, turning corners without hesitation, heading straight for the supply closet like he's made this journey a hundred times before.
"How do you know where the supply closet is?" I ask, surprise coloring my voice.
He glances down at me, those olive-green eyes catching the flickering fluorescent light. There's amusement in his expression, mixed with something darker. "It's always good to know your surroundings, Sugarplum. Especially if it's a place you tend to come to often."
Oh. He's a regular. That makes sense. Marcus would have mentioned if he'd never seen him before. Which means this Alpha has probably watched me work here before. Has seen me in my various costumes, serving drinks, laughing with customers.
Why does that thought make me even wetter?
"You come here often?" I ask, then immediately cringe.Did I really just use a pickup line? What am I, twelve?
But he just chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest against my side. "Often enough. Not necessarily an alcoholic like some of those Alphas back there, but I do like the buzz it brings. Takes the edge off, you know?"
There's something in his voice—a weariness, a weight—that makes me look at him more closely. The dog tags around his neck catch the light. The small scars on his face and hands. The way he carries himself with military precision even when he's drunk and carrying an Omega to a supply closet.
He's seen things. Done things. Carries burdens that probably keep him up at night. The alcohol isn't about getting drunk—it's about finding a moment of peace in a world that's been harsh to him.
"There's nothing wrong with needing a bit of a drink in this world," I say softly. "It's rather harsh on all of us, isn't it? We all need our coping mechanisms."
Something shifts in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition—like he didn't expect me to understand. Like most people judge him for drinking instead of asking why he needs to.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "Yeah, it is."
We reach the supply closet—a plain wooden door with a tarnished brass handle, tucked away at the end of the hallway where the lighting is even worse. Somehow, he manages to open it while still carrying me. The door swings inward with a creakthat announces our arrival to absolutely no one because we're alone back here.
He steps inside, and before I can process what's happening, he's shutting the door with his foot. The click of the latch is loud in the small space, final and somehow intimate.
The supply closet is exactly what you'd expect from a small-town bar that's been operating since the 1800s: small, cramped, filled with decades of accumulated supplies and probably some things that should have been thrown away years ago. Extra napkins and straws in industrial-sized boxes, bottles of cleaning solution that smell like pine and chemicals, backup liquor stock arranged on wire shelving, boxes of glassware wrapped in newspaper from 2015.
There's a small counter along one wall—probably meant for organizing inventory or doing counts—and that's where he lowers me, setting me down with surprising gentleness. His hands steady me, making sure I'm secure before he pulls back.
