Just the cave of old boxes, the chemical pine, the fluorescent struggle light, the endless, thick layer of Omega sugar in the air.
Then my dog tags clatter, loud enough to startle me, and the world surges back into motion.
I'm done waiting.
She's not just a cupcake—she's the entire dessert table at a holiday bake-off, and I'm already planning on seconds.
I steady myself between her thighs. Let myself look, just for a heartbeat, at the mess I've made—her, split open, wet, stillflushed from the orgasm I gave her with my mouth, pantyhose in shreds, panties transparent with want.
I should be proud of the view, but all I can think about is how fast I can get inside her before I lose every remaining scrap of self-restraint.
"You're a hell of a lot of trouble for a Tuesday night," I tell her, letting reverence sneak into my voice.
She laughs, the sound quivering up and through her, nerves and bravado tangled together.
"You're one to talk. Most Alphas take their time buying me a drink before they start carving up my wardrobe."
"So you're saying I'm memorable," I say, pinning her with a look.
"You're saying you haven't even started," she breathes, and then she wraps her hand around my dog tags and yanks me up for a kiss that tastes like sugar, bourbon, and pure, undiluted chaos.
Perfect.
My hands catch her waist. Her legs open a little wider on instinct, and the shreds of her tights peel away under my palms.
Every movement is calculated, but every impulse is reckless—hers and mine, smashing together in the tiny airless closet until the rest of the world is just static.
I want to tear her open.
I want to leave marks.
Most of all, I want to savor it—the way she trusts me, the way she hands over her body like a dare, the divine taste of her still lingers in my mouth while the rest of her is waiting for me to take more.
I kiss her back, deeper, dragging her to the edge of the counter with a single tug.
The scent of her is so intense it short-circuits all rational thought—just sugar, spice, and raw, feral Omega.
My cock is leaking, throbbing, so ready it's almost embarrassing, but I'm banking it.
Building it.
Letting her see what happens to an Alpha when he's really, really hungry.
The closet is too small for theatrics, but I make do.
Dog tags swinging. My hands everywhere. The sound of torn fabric still ringing in my ears while Reverie laughs into my mouth like what we're doing is criminal and we're already planning the getaway.
"Tell me again," I murmur, voice rough, "that you're not afraid."
She grins, sharp and beautiful, eyes blown wide.
"Only thing I fear is running out of time."
"We've got an hour," I promise her. "I don't need even half that to blow your mind."
Her breath catches, but her hands never let go.
My hands skim her bare thighs, span her hips, everything me mapped to everything her.
