I'm choosing to be brave. To be bold. To be the Omega who takes what she wants instead of the Omega who settles for whatever scraps she's given.
I lean in and kiss him.
This time, I'm the one in control. The kiss is slower, softer, giving me the space to explore. My lips move against his with deliberate attention, tasting the beer on his breath, the sweetness underneath. My hands slide up from his shoulders to cup his face, feeling the stubble against my palms, the warmth of his skin.
His arms come around me, pulling me closer to the edge of the counter, pressing our bodies together. I can feel his hardness against my inner thigh through his jeans—proof that he wants this just as much as I do.
When I break the kiss, we're both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, making his eyes look almost black in the dim light of the supply closet. His chest heaves against mine, and I can feel his heart racing as fast as my own.
I whisper against his lips—bold, reckless, completely out of character and yet somehow exactly who I want to be:
"Then what is my military Santa waiting for? Take what you want."
CHAPTER 10
Cupcakes, Dog Tags, And Spontaneous Ideas
~THEODORE~
Now, isn’t this the best way to enjoy an evening at the bar.
I'm still down on my knees in front of her, forehead braced against her thigh.
My face is soaked—lips, chin, even the tip of my nose slicked with Omega nectar. I could die happy right here, honestly.
My Sugarplum Omega, post-orgasm, is a force of nature.
Her head tips back against the wall, mouth half open, chest lifting in wild little bursts like she just ran a marathon through a bakery window display. Or maybe like she just survived having her soul sucked right out through her cunt by a six-foot-three Alpha with military-grade oral fixation.
Both are true.
The supply closet is a disaster zone.
Dim light overhead, flickering like it's one short of a full mental breakdown; the walls lined with battered shelves,cleaning bottles, cardboard cases, ancient bar rags, and at least three varieties of industrial liquor nobody should ever drink straight. The floor's sticky, the air wet with sanitizer, but all of it—the sharp cleaner, the stale beer, the dust—gets obliterated by her scent.
It's everywhere.
Hot vanilla and caramel—spun up sweet, sticky, so dense you could bottle it and sell it as a controlled substance.
Beneath that, the cinnamon-sugar Omega spike, warm, sharp, impossible to ignore.
And then the pheromones—fucking pheromones. They hit like a holiday parade gone off the rails. My cock's been at parade rest for roughly two seconds and it's already aching, threatening to saw a hole through my jeans if I don't do something drastic soon.
I don't get like this.
Ever.
Not even in the barracks, not even in the dark, not even a decade ago when I actually had a fraction of a libido worth bragging about.
But Ms. Claus is rewiring my brain cell by cell, and I'm not sure if I want to salute her…or beg.
I lean back, slow and deliberate, licking her slick from my lips.
Nothing wasted.
Nothing left for the room but the soft mess of her gasp, the way she blinks at me like I might be a hallucination.
For a heartbeat, I just stare.
