The contradiction is fascinating. This massive, intimidating Alpha who speaks Russian to his dog and lives in a house full of personal touches and talks about being "all game in the realms of love" like it's a normal thing to say. He's full of surprises, and I'm finding that I want to unwrap every single one.
"Smooth talker," I accuse, though there's no heat in it. "But where's all the sugar, then? The chocolates? The flowers? If we're playing Valentine's games, I expect proper effort."
He chuckles—an actual laugh, low and rumbling and absolutely devastating to my composure. "You want me to woo you properly? Court you with candy hearts and roses?"
"I'm saying if you're going to call me your Valentine, you should be prepared to back it up." I raise an eyebrow challengingly. "Otherwise it's just empty words."
His eyes darken—just a shade, just enough to notice. "Well. Not everyone is turned on by muscled thickness. Figured I should check before making assumptions."
Something bold rises in my chest. The same energy that made me climb him like a tree in the bathroom. The confidence that only emerges when I'm in my element—when I'm creating drinks or doing something I'm passionate about or, apparently, when I'm sitting in a gorgeous kitchen being flirted with by an Alpha who looks at me like I'm the most fascinating thing he's ever encountered.
"And why wouldn't I be?" I hear myself say. "If I can climb the trunk of a man, I can most definitely ride him the way I want to."
The words hang in the air between us. Bold. Shameless. Completely unlike the reserved omega I usually project to the world.
Tank's eyes godark. Not dangerous-dark.Hungry-dark. The kind of look that makes you very aware of exactly how much power is contained in the body standing before you, and exactly what that power could do if properly directed.
"Don't tempt me, Sweetness," he growls—actuallygrowls, the sound rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest. "Don't tempt me with a good fucking time."
Oh, this is fun. This is really, really fun. I could get used to this—the banter, the push and pull, the way he responds to my boldness with heat instead of shock.
I lean forward, closing the remaining distance between us until my lips are almost—almost—touching his. I can feel his breath on my mouth. Can smell the whiskey and chocolate he must have had earlier, layered beneath that devastating scent that makes my omega want to purr.
"I can tempt you with a good fuckingnight," I whisper. "Only if you let me be on top."
For a moment, he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Just stares at me with those dark eyes, something shifting behind them—calculation, maybe. Desire, definitely. And beneath it all, a softening that makes my heart do something complicated in my chest.
I wonder if he expected this. If he thought the omega he was assigned to protect would end up in his kitchen, demanding to be on top. If any of this was part of whatever plan brought him to the mixer in the first place.
And I wonder if I care. Right now, with his scent surrounding me and his eyes locked on mine and the promise of something incredible hanging in the air between us... I don't think I do.
Then he grins. Actuallygrins—full and genuine, showing white teeth and transforming his severe features into something almost boyish. His eyes warm, losing some of their intensity, andwhen he speaks, his voice is softer. Reverent, almost. Like he's answering a prayer.
"Deal, Sweetness."
CHAPTER 8
Sweet Valentine's Rodeo
~ROSEMARIE~
The kiss deepens into something feral, his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that steals my breath and scatters every rational thought I've clung to tonight. Tank's lips are firm, demanding, yet there's a reverence in the way he angles his head, like he's savoring a rare vintage he's waited years to taste. His tongue strokes against mine in slow, deliberate sweeps, coaxing rather than conquering, and I feel that spark ignite into a full blaze low in my belly.
Enough teasing. Time to unwrap this gift properly.
I break the kiss with a gasp, my lips tingling and swollen, and sit back just enough to grasp the hem of his fitted black tee. The fabric clings to his torso like it was poured over muscle, and I tug upward with impatient fingers. He lifts his arms without hesitation, helping me peel it off in one fluid motion, and the shirt lands somewhere on the floor with a soft thud—forgotten, irrelevant.
Holy hell.
The man beneath me is a masterpiece of disciplined power. Broad shoulders taper into a chest carved from years of relentless training—thick slabs of pectoral muscle dusted with dark hair that trails downward in a tempting line over abs ridged like armored plates. Tattoos weave across his skin in intricate patterns: bold military insignia intertwined with abstract lines that look almost protective, runes or sigils etched in black ink that disappear beneath the waistband of his boxers. Scars interrupt the art here and there—pale lines from blades or shrapnel, woven seamlessly into the designs like badges earned in battles I'll probably never hear about.
He's jacked in a way that's functional, not performative. No vanity puffing here; this is the body of someone who treats the gym like a battlefield and emerges victorious every time. Veins cord along his biceps as he flexes instinctively, and I trace one with my fingertip, marveling at the heat radiating from his skin.
No wonder he radiates bodyguard energy. The way he moved in that bathroom—shielding me without thinking, assessing threats before they fully formed—it's ingrained. Profession? Probably. But right now, speculation can wait. My omega instincts are purring loud enough to drown out curiosity.
I shift forward, straddling his lap fully as we sink deeper into the massive king-size poster bed that dominates his bedroom. Thank every deity ever worshipped that this beast of a frame is solid mahogany—four thick posts rising like sentinels, draped in sheer black curtains that filter the low amber glow from bedside lamps. The mattress is plush yet supportive, swallowing our combined weight without so much as a creak, and the sheets beneath us are high-thread-count cotton in deep charcoal, cool against my heated skin.
This bed was built for exactly this kind of chaos.
