The way the sweat beads at her collarbone. The flush painting wild color across her cheeks and chest. The orange tips of her hair, splayed like a caution sign against the dull beige of the wall and the glint of her tights, shredded and dark from thigh to toe.
I want her ruined.
I want to make her ruin the new normal.
Dog tags chatter at my neck when I shift higher, bracing both hands on her knees.
My movements are sharp, precise—the kind that taught me to handle a weapon in a sandstorm, the kind that only comes out when I've had just enough whiskey to drop the rest of the world behind a locked door.
"You alive?" I ask, low, just to see if I broke her.
She shivers.
"Not sure," she whispers, all breath and not a single shred of shame. "Pretty sure you just?—"
She doesn't finish. The blush says it for her.
I grin like the bastard I am.
She blinks back to herself with the slow, syrupy daze of a cartoon animal hit by a falling grand piano—wobbly, stunned, sort of impressed at how thoroughly it got flattened. Her lips part on a breathless exhale, the sound a cross between a giggle and the surprised bird-call of someone who just got away with something illegal.
She tries to wrangle her tights back up, but they're shot to hell—laddered in three places, the waistband twisted and surrendering all hope. Her skirt's bunched at her waist, silver wig hair a mess around her flushed face, and still she straightens, tugging hem and tights with a pride that says —I am nothing if not deeply, ferociously myself, and you can either keep up or get run over.
I try not to let it show, but my hands itch to help, to palm the plush of her thighs and keep her caught on the edge of the table forever, half-dressed and open and gasping my name.
She wiggles down, boots clattering on the sticky floor, and there's a new confidence in the way she rolls her hips, setting everything deliberately back into place. It’s like watching anescape artist slip free of her chains. She pulls the hem of her skirt low—not to hide, I realize, but to show that she can still play the part, even when every molecule on her skin is humming with Alpha scent and memory.
I want to savor her.
I want to lick the sweat from her neck, mark her with my teeth, chase that cinnamon-sugar sharpness until she’s helpless in my lap—right here, on filthy linoleum, while the whole bar pounds with life just outside the paper-thin door.
The contrast makes my blood spark: my hands are still shaking from restraint, but my cock is less patient. I can feel the heat of her, the way her pheromones crank up to eleven, as if daring me to fuck the logic right out of both our heads.
She turns on me, back against the table, and her eyes glitter with something wicked.
“You gonna stand there, Alpha, or you gonna do something about that?” She gestures—vague, but enough. And, god, the way she says 'Alpha' is so knowing, so unsentimental, it nearly buckles my knees.
I want her.
Not just the slick, easy pleasure of it—I want the mess, the intensity, the way she’ll make me fight for every breath. I want to be undone and rebuilt, atom by atom, until the man who walks out of this closet is raw and unrecognizable.
Her scent hits me like a grenade in close quarters—vanilla buttercream melting into something richer, almost caramelized, laced with that bright citrus kick that reminds me of fresh snow on orange peels.
It's everywhere in this cramped supply closet, mingling with the stale dust of old cardboard boxes and the sharp tang of cleaning solvents stacked on the metal shelves behind us. The air feels thicker because of it, heavy with her arousal, and damn if it doesn't make my cock twitch harder against my jeans.
I let my gaze roam over her, taking in every detail: the way her silver wig frames her flushed face, those blue contacts making her eyes look like frozen lakes under holiday lights, the velvet of her Mrs. Claus dress hiked up just enough to reveal the semi sheer black tights clinging to her curvy thighs.
She's a vision of festive chaos, all bubbly energy wrapped in red and white, and right now, she's looking at me like I'm the only mission that matters.
There’s no universe in which I don’t close the distance. Not when she’s looking at me like that—like she’s about to set fire to the room just because she can, and I’m the only one she wants to burn with.
My body moves before my brain can draft a plan: two strides, boots planting on the grimy floor, and now it’s Omega back versus the edge of the table, her palms splayed for balance behind her.
I can feel the energy rolling off her—bright, hot, restless—like her every nerve wants to short-circuit mine.
I reach for her, not gentle, not rough, just hungry. Hands wrap around her waist, and I love the way she startles—just a little—like she’s never been held by something big enough to actually move her if it wanted. No one’s ever tested her boundaries, not really. Bold Omega, defiant Omega, the one who breaks rules and owns it, but when I haul her close, she goes pliant for half a heartbeat.
Then the fight returns, flaring wild in her eyes, and I realize she wants the contest as much as I do. Not a battle for dominance—just a collision, two forces trying to see who can out-chaos the other.
