Her scent spikes, so thick I could chew it, and it’s all I can do not to dip my head and nose into the crook of her neck.
Instead, I linger, eyes on hers, and let the tension hang. Her hips are pressed to my stomach, her fingers curled into the edge of the table like she’s daring me to try something.
I bend my knees, dragging her forward with me, and suddenly her thighs are bracketing my hips, the velvet skirt riding up to expose the shimmery ruin of her tights. I don’t even hide the way my tongue flicks out, tasting the air between us, drawing another flush to her cheeks.
She’s not the only one who can look hungry.
“Don’t think you’re getting out of here without a rematch,” I murmur, and the words come out rough—thicker than I meant them, like the idea of stopping hurts.
She grins, lips parted, eyes rolling up just enough to show a flash of white.
“Round two already? We haven’t gotten to the main course, Alpha,” she teases. “You got stamina for days, huh?”
“You’ll see.”
And I want her to.
I want her to see every last thing I can do to her and then some.
But first, I want to admire.
To memorize how she looks right now—hair wild, dress a mess, legs dangling over the edge of the table, every inch of her humming with the aftershocks of what I just did to her.
So I lift her, easy as picking up a kitten, and set her back on the table, keeping my hands on her waist until I’m sure she won’t tip right off the edge. The motion forces her to meet my gaze, and I hold it, letting myself drink it all in.
My Ms. Claus…so fucking hot.
“Theodore Wright,” I quietly whisper the introduction. “Theo for short.”
Insane how I enjoyed eating her pussy up before even getting into pleasant introductions, but too late now to fix up my manners.
“Reverie,” she whispers, as if it’s a secret only I can carry. “Reverie Bell.”
Reverie.
My sweet Sugarplum Omega.
I like the sound of that…the ring of it.
Taking a step back, once more, I drink her all up, wondering if what I’m thinking of doing next will turn her on, or make her run for the hills.
Only one way to find out really.
I reach for my pocket and flick my folding knife open with a snap.
The sound is sharp, metallic, somehow louder in a closet barely big enough for the two of us and a thousand years of bar supplies. My Sugarplum's eyes go wide, tracking the blade—not afraid, not really, just locked in with that kind of mad curiosity that makes me want to show off a little. Her thighs spread, just a hair more, her skirt rucked high enough now to make my pulse hammer.
I keep it slow. Deliberate.
The way I was taught—never rush, never let your hands shake, even if the target is screaming.
My left hand lands gentle on her thigh, heat radiating through the fabric, fingers braced so the skin doesn't pull. My right hand, knife pinched, steadies at the inner curve, right where the tights are slick from what I've just done to her.
She flinches—not from fear, but from want.
The sound the blade makes slicing into the shimmering nylon is perfection—like the world's dirtiest Christmas present being unwrapped on live TV.
It parts easy, no resistance, just the slow, calculated pull of metal through fabric.
