He's tall and moves with the kind of confidence that comes from a lifetime of power. I know his face but seeing him in person is completely different. Pure charisma rolls off of him. Iblink, seeing dark hair, strong jaw, and shoulders that fill out his suit in a way that makes my throat tight. He is the man I have been chasing in my dreams.
He takes three steps into the studio.
Then he stops.
It's not subtle. It's not a half-step or a slight hesitation. He stops dead, like he's walked into an invisible wall. His whole body goes rigid. I watch his nostrils flare, his chest expand as he drags in a breath. He's caught my scent the same way I've caught his.
His eyes find mine.
The impact is physical. I feel it in my gut like I’ve been punched. His pupils are blown wide, the gray-blue of his irises reduced to thin rings. He's staring at me like I'm the only person in the room. Like I'm the only person in the world.
My whole body clenches. I can feel slick threatening at my entrance, my body responding to his presence with absolutely no regard for the fact that we're on national television.
I press my thighs together under the desk, praying no one can smell what's happening to me even as I know thathecan. Every alpha and omega in this studio can.
Carter hasn't moved. He's still standing in the middle of the floor, frozen, his mask of composure cracked wide open. I can see his hands shaking. I can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. I can see the moment he realizes what's happening and tries to fight it.
"Mr. Crane?" Glass's voice cuts through the fog. He sounds delighted. "Please, have a seat."
Carter blinks. Something in his expression shutters, and I watch him pull himself together through sheer force of will. He takes a breath, then another. His hands clench into fists at his sides, then deliberately relax.
He walks to the empty chair.
Every step brings him closer to me. Every step makes the scent stronger. By the time he lowers himself into the seat, I'm dizzy with it. I feel like I'm going to pass out. I want to climb into his lap.
He's close enough now that I can see the pulse hammering in his throat. I can smell the sharp edge of his arousal cutting through the scent of snow. He's as affected as I am. He's just better at hiding it.
Or maybe not. His hands are gripping the arms of his chair with white-knuckled force and a muscle in his jaw keeps twitching.
When he speaks, his voice is rougher than it was in any of the press conferences I watched.
"Thank you for the opportunity to set the record straight."
He doesn't look at me. I understand why. If he looks at me right now, I don't know what will happen. I don't know what I'll do. I don’t know what he’ll do either.
Glass is talking. I can hear words—something about allegations, something about setting the record straight—but they're just noise. Background static. All I can focus on is Carter's scent, Carter's presence, the heat radiating off his body from three feet away.
The masquerade. It was him.
"Mr. Dean?"
I jerk my attention back to Glass. He's looking at me expectantly. So is Carter. So is everyone in the studio.
I have no idea what was just asked.
"I'm sorry," I manage, sounding far too breathy. "Could you repeat the question?"
Glass grins and I can see the glee in his eyes. He knows good television when he sees it.
"I asked if you could address your allegations directly to Mr. Crane, now that he's here."
Right. The allegations. The story. The reason I'm here in the first place.
I force myself to look at Carter Crane III.
That's a mistake.
He's already looking at me, and the eye contact sends a jolt through my whole body. His gaze is intense, burning, and underneath the hostility I can see something hungry.
