My throat feels tight. My eyes sting with the threat of tears I absolutely will not cry in this supply closet.
"Be safe on the rest of your shift," he says, his tone gentling. "Let's keep in touch, yeah?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. Manage a smile that probably looks watery and pathetic.
"Thank you," I finally say. "For the good fucking."
Smooth, Rev. Real smooth. Why not just thank him for his service while you're at it?
But he just smirks—that devastating smile that makes my knees weak. "Don't go riding other cocks though."
I laugh—surprised and delighted by the possessiveness in his tone. "Hmm. I'll try. But now that my standards are way up here—" I gesture somewhere above my head. "I'm not so sure I'll find anyone who measures up. Might have to come back for seconds."
His grin widens. "Always down for seconds. And thirds. And however many rounds you want."
God, why is that so hot? Why does the idea of him wanting me again—multiple times—make my stomach flip and my pussy clench?
I leave the closet before I do something stupid like kiss him again or ask him to fuck me one more time even though I absolutely need to get back to work.
The hallway is blessedly empty. The bar noise is a distant roar—music, laughter, the general chaos of a Friday night in a small-town tavern.
I slip into the employee bathroom—a tiny, cramped space that barely qualifies as a bathroom with a mirror that's seen better days and fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look slightly dead or possibly undead. The kind of lighting that washes out all color and emphasizes every flaw.
But when I look at my reflection, I don't look dead. I look alive. More alive than I've looked in months, maybe years. Flushed and happy and thoroughly fucked in the best possible way. My eyes are bright, almost glowing. My lips are swollen and red from kissing. There's color in my cheeks that has nothing to do with makeup.
My wig is fixable—a few adjustments and it's back in place, silver waves cascading over my shoulders. My makeup needs a touch-up but nothing too serious—some powder to reduce the shine, a bit more lipstick to replace what I kissed off. The blue contacts are still in place, making my eyes look otherworldly.
The pantyhose are beyond saving—multiple runs, clean knife cuts, completely destroyed. I end up just taking them off completely, rolling them down my legs carefully so I don't create more runs, and stuffing them in the trash can under a bunch of paper towels so no one will see them and ask questions.
Bare legs under my Mrs. Claus dress. Slightly scandalous for the costume, but who's going to notice? Everyone's drunk anyway. And honestly, my legs look good. Smooth and shapely and showing off the curves that Kael's pack made me feel bad about. Screw them. I look hot.
I fix my hair with practiced motions, reapply my lipstick in the shade that Marcus calls 'Mrs. Claus Red,' smooth down my velvet dress and adjust the white fur trim. Take a deep breath—in through my nose, out through my mouth—and try to composemyself into someone who definitely didn't just have mind-blowing sex in the supply closet with a gorgeous military Alpha.
Spoiler alert: I'm failing spectacularly. I look exactly like someone who just got thoroughly ravished. But you know what? I don't even care.
That was the best thing to happen to me this year. Hands down. No contest. The best fucking—literally and figuratively—of my entire life.
And now I'm wondering if this holiday season is going to fulfill my knotty Christmas wish. Not just getting laid like that again—though that would be amazing—but maybe finding a set of Alphas as bold and frisky as Theo.
Three of them, apparently. If that whole public claiming thing at the bar was real and not just a performance to get Jasper to back off.
The bookstore Alpha with his maple-honey scent and soft smile. Nash with his motor oil and leather and that cocky grin. Theo with his cedar smoke and military precision and hands that know exactly where to touch.
Could they actually want me? All three of them? Or was tonight just a fluke—a perfect storm of alcohol and pheromones and Christmas magic?
I don't know. But for the first time in years, I'm hopeful. Excited. Ready to see what happens next.
Maybe this holiday season will fulfill my knotty Christmas wish of not only getting laid like that again, but finding a set of Alphas as bold and frisky as Theo.
CHAPTER 12
Fake It 'Til You Make It
~NASH~
"So you thought it was only logical to actually fuck her in the supply closet because your horny ass couldn't dare hold off?"
I'm sitting in the passenger side of my truck—well, technically it's Grayson's truck since he's driving, but I bought it for him two Christmases ago so I consider it partially mine by proxy—glaring at the rearview mirror where I can just barely make out Theo's silhouette in the backseat.
