I inhale deeply, trying to identify it. The soap from our bathroom? Something else? The memory of her emerging from the bathroom this morning, her skin pink from the hot water,surfaces immediately. Did she use the sandalwood body wash? The citrus shampoo?
My cock stirs, hardening against my pants at the mental image of her in the shower, water cascading over her bare skin, her hands moving over her body, touching where I want to touch...
“Rett? You with us?” Zoe’s voice snaps me back to reality. She’s standing in front of me, holding a bunch of bananas, her head tilted in question.
“Sorry,” I manage, grateful for the cart partially concealing my growing problem. “Just... thinking.”
“About produce?” she asks skeptically.
Not even close. “About the list,” I lie. “Making sure we don’t forget anything.”
“Well, come on then,” she says, turning back to the cart. “We still have the entire store to get through, and I promised Tristan a tour of the cereal aisle.”
I follow, pushing my cart and trying to force my mind away from shower fantasies and back to the task at hand. Focus. Control. This is about making Zoe comfortable, not indulging in inappropriate thoughts about our temporary housemate.
The store is getting more crowded as we move through the aisles. It’s primarily beta couples and families, with the occasional alpha-omega pair whose scents announce their status before they even round the corner.
Zoe seems oblivious to the subtle dynamics at play. The way beta and omega eyes linger on our group with undisguised curiosity, the way other alphas instinctively give us a wider berth. She’s too busy explaining the critical differences between store-brand and name-brand pasta to Diego.
“Trust me, for basic spaghetti, you will never taste the difference,” she insists, tossing a blue box into the cart. “Save the fancy stuff for special occasions.”
“But the fancy Italian one has the better packaging,” Tristanargues, holding up a more expensive option. “Doesn’t that count for something?”
“Only if you’re planning to frame it,” Zoe laughs, tossing the simpler, sturdier box of spaghetti into the cart with a decisive thump. “This one’s better for actually eating.” She turns, already scanning the overhead signs. “Okay, now for the most important food group.”
“Which is?” Diego asks, a smile in his voice.
“Ice cream,” she declares, and without waiting for a response, she pivots and heads for the frozen section. We all just fall into step behind her, a clumsy, oversized honor guard in the service of our new queen.
She comes to a stop in front of the wall of glass doors, her head tilted as she surveys the options. She finds what she’s looking for on the top shelf, stretching up on her toes to reach it. The hem of her t-shirt rides up, exposing a pale, perfect strip of skin at the small of her back.
My brain short-circuits.
Every instinct I have screams at me to close the distance. To put my hands on her waist, to press myself against her, to bury my face in the curve of her neck and breathe her in.
Before I can stop myself, I’m moving.
“Here,” I say, my voice coming out as a low, rough growl. “Let me.”
I’m behind her in an instant, my body caging hers against the cold air of the freezer door. She startles, a small gasp escaping her as my chest brushes her back. I reach over her, my arm bracketing her head, and easily grab the carton she was struggling for.
For a beat, neither of us moves. The world narrows to this single, charged space. Her heat. The clean, cherry blossom scent of her shampoo. The way the fine hairs at her nape curl slightly. My alpha is roaring like a possessive, triumphant beast, and it takes every ounce of my control not to lean down and taste the skin she so innocently exposed.
I pull back, putting a crucial inch of air between us, and hold the carton out. “Mint chocolate chip?” I manage to say, the question sounding strangled even to my own ears.
She nods, a faint flush spreading across her cheeks. “It’s my favorite.”
“I’ll remember that,” I say, placing it in the cart.
The flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat, right where one of our claiming marks sits, is mesmerizing. I want to press my lips to that spot, to feel her heartbeat against my tongue.
“Brrr,” Tristan exaggerates, appearing at the end of the aisle with an armful of frozen pizzas. “It’s freezing in here. Or is that just the sexual tension?”
Zoe rolls her eyes, the moment broken. “The only tension I feel is my patience wearing thin. How many pizzas do you need?”
“All of them,” he says seriously.
“Put half of those back,” she instructs, turning to the next freezer section. “And get at least one with vegetables on it.”
