"When was the last time you were fucked right?" I rasp, one hand slipping up to cup her jaw, now, thumb tracing the flushed line of her cheek.
She goes still, and I almost wonder if I fucked up.
Then she smiles, real and broken all at once.
"Years," she says. Doesn't even bother to lie. Just looks me dead in the eye, like she's proud of being this fucking honest with a stranger.
Years.
Fucking hell we can’t have that.
I want to break whoever left her so hungry. I want to erase every memory of them until this is the only one left…and then make more with her. Like having her bent over a bar counter, needing so bad she can't even fake a laugh.
My cock is leaking now, every pulse a warning shot.
I rock into her, denim catching at her slick, dragging a whimper from her throat.
She arches up, chasing me.
"You think you can fix that?"
My turn to grin.
"You kidding? I'm about to ruin you for every other Alpha in the county."
She hums, chin tipping up.
"You should aim higher. State minimum, at least."
The banter is electric—frenzied, desperate, like if we keep talking we won't shatter from want. But it’s not slowing me down.
I slip both hands under her ass, lift her just enough to wedge myself even tighter to her. Her dress crumples, riding high, and the ruined lace of her panties splits further under my knuckles.
“Just so you know,” I mutter, dragging my lips up her neck, “closet sex isn’t romantic. I’m not slow. Not gentle. Not when I want something this much.”
She shivers—clamps down on my waist with her thighs like she wants to rug-burn every inch of me.
"Good," she bites back. "Because the last thing I want is to pretend this is some sweet, gentle affair. I’m not that type of Omega. At least, not in this moment."
Her hands go from my neck to my hair, fisting hard, nails scraping the skin. I can’t tell if she’s holding on for comfort or leverage. Her lips are at my ear, hot and wild.
"Honestly? This isn't my usual style at all. But right now? I want it. I want you to take what you want. Don't hold back."
Damn.
I can't remember the last time anyone asked for more from me.
She wants everything I’ve got—and she wants it right now.
The bar noise is soft, muffled, like it’s happening in another galaxy. The only sound that matters is our bodies, slick against denim, breathless moans, the rhythm of our panting getting ragged.
Light stutters above us, shadows flicker, but I keep my focus locked on her—her pupils blown wide, her chest heaving, the flush that starts at her neck and creeps down between her perfect, heavy tits.
I bite her lip again, then her jaw. She gasps, breathless, but there’s laughter in it too.
“Jesus, military Santa. Did you ever go through actual sensitivity training, or did they just teach you how to destroy?”
“Both,” I admit, nipping her earlobe. “But one’s a hell of a lot more fun.”
