My feet dangle above the floor, the counter just high enough that I'm sitting at eye level with him. Perfect height for... well. For exactly what we're probably about to do. The positioning feels intentional even though it's not.
The space smells like a combination of things: cleaning products sharp and chemical, cardboard musty and old, wood that's been absorbing bar smells for over a century. There's a hint of old beer, spilled and never quite cleaned away. Dust particles dance in the thin strip of light coming from under the door.
But underneath all that is the overwhelming scent of my arousal—vanilla buttercream gone hot and thick, like it's been left too long in the sun. Caramel burning sweet, that perfect moment before it turns to candy. Sugar melting in heat, becoming liquid and sticky. Lemon zest that's been crushed,releasing essential oils. And that winter-snow note that usually keeps everything balanced has turned warm, almost steamy.
Oh god, he can definitely smell how turned on I am. There's no hiding it. No pretending this is innocent or that I'm not affected. The whole closet probably reeks of horny Omega at this point. Anyone who walks past will know exactly what's happening—or about to happen—in here.
I smirk, lifting my hands to gesture around the cramped space with exaggerated flair. "Welcome to my lair, where I hide from the crazies and hope to not have an emotional breakdown. The amenities include dusty shelves, questionable stains, and the lingering scent of industrial cleaner. Five stars on TripAdvisor."
His eyes twinkle with amusement, a grin spreading across his face that transforms him from intimidating veteran to absolutely devastating. The Santa hat is slightly askew on his head, making him look ridiculous and hot at the same time.
God, he really is a hot piece of work. And I mean that in the best possible way. The dark hair with those silver-grey streaks that catch the dim light and make him look distinguished instead of old. The unusual green eyes with gold flecks that seem to glow in the shadows, like a wolf's eyes reflecting firelight. The sharp angles of his face—high cheekbones, strong jaw, straight nose—softened by genuine amusement instead of the usual hard edges veterans tend to carry.
The broad shoulders and muscled chest visible even through the casual black henley. The way his jeans fit him perfectly—not too tight, not too loose, just right in that way that suggests either really good luck or really good taste. The combat boots that have definitely seen action. The dog tags that represent experiences I can't imagine. The way he's looking at me like I'm the most interesting thing he's seen in years, like I'm worth his complete attention.
I take my time looking at him, letting my eyes travel from his face down to his chest, his arms where I can see the definition of muscle through fabric, the way his hands rest casually at his sides. Capable hands. Strong hands. Hands that could hurt but choose to be gentle.Yeah, definitely hot. Definitely interested if the bulge in his jeans is any indication. Definitely making my pussy throb with want that's bordering on painful.
"Are you checking me out, Sugarplum?" His voice is low, teasing, with an edge of heat that makes my skin flush.
I bite my lip, trying to look innocent and probably failing spectacularly. "Well... maybe. But I can't get too excited because I only have an hour break. Have to pace myself and all that."
His scent—cedar and smoke and cardamom and something uniquely him—surrounds me completely, mixing with my own vanilla-caramel sweetness until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. The combination is intoxicating, making my head spin and my body lean toward him automatically.
"Lots can be done in an hour," he says quietly, voice sounding almost like a whisper. The words are simple but loaded with promise. With possibility. With about a thousand different things I've been trying not to think about since he pulled me onto his lap.
Oh. Oh my. Is he suggesting what I think he's suggesting? Because my body is very much on board with that plan. My pussy is basically writing a petition at this point. Circulating achange.orgdemanding immediate attention. Creating a PowerPoint presentation titled 'Why Reverie Needs to Get Laid: A Statistical Analysis.'
It's been so long. Months. Maybe closer to a year since the last time with Kael, which was terrible and left me feeling used instead of satisfied. Before that? Even longer since anyone actually made an effort to make me feel good instead of just using my body for their own pleasure.
I nod, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I agree." I bite my bottom lip, worrying it between my teeth before whispering, "Though I don't think it would be good to do what I'm thinking we can do."
His eyebrow arches, interest sparking in those green-gold eyes. "And why is that?"
"Well," I say, trying to keep my voice steady even though my whole body is trembling with want, "riding the hot possessive Santa Claus who just kissed me in front of everyone in the bar—who are definitely going to spread it through the town like emergency news—would be very... cinematic for a small gossip-thriving town like Oakridge Hollow. Tomorrow's headline: Local Omega Rides Santa in Supply Closet. Film at eleven."
He chuckles, the sound dark and promising. "Fair point."
But then he starts moving. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a prowling animal ready to pounce—a predator who's been watching his prey and has finally decided the moment is right. Every step is calculated, every movement precise and controlled. His eyes never leave mine, that green-gold gaze pinning me in place more effectively than any physical restraint ever could.
Predator. He's definitely a predator. Apex predator, actually, if we're being specific. And I'm very much the prey. But here's the thing—I don't want to run. I don't want to escape. I want to see what happens when he catches me. Want to know what those hands will feel like. Want to discover if reality lives up to the fantasy that's been building in my head.
When he reaches me—after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all—his hands land lightly on my knees. Not grabbing, not demanding, not taking without permission. Just resting there, warm and solid through the black tights. The touch is gentle despite the strength I know he possesses. Respectful despite the hunger I can see in his eyes.
His thumbs brush against the fabric in small circles, feeling the texture, mapping the territory. Even that small touch sends electricity shooting up my thighs, making my muscles tense and my breath catch. The tights are kind of sheer, barely a barrier, and I can feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric.
How is he making something as innocent as touching my knees feel so charged? So intimate? So absolutely devastatingly hot?
His eyes bore into mine—intense, focused, seeing right through every defense I've ever built, every wall I've ever constructed, every mask I've ever worn. Like he can see the real me underneath all the costumes and disguises and carefully crafted personas.
"If you agree it's a bad idea," I manage to say, my voice coming out breathy, "then why are you closer now?"
He leans in—close enough that his lips are almost brushing mine, close enough that I can taste his breath, close enough that I could close the distance with the slightest movement.
"Because I don't give a damn about gossip," he whispers against my lips.
Oh. Oh wow. That's... that's really hot. Why is that so hot? Why does the idea of him not caring what people think make me want to climb him like a tree?
I smirk, even though my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. "And you're just going to go along with the random fact that your Alpha pack brothers back there just said I'm your Omega? When I barely know either of them, or you for that matter?"
