For my part, I’m only chilly. Despite the goosebumps forming on my legs and arms, I fall back and let him take a good look at me. Nightgown rumpled and marked by his sweaty hands, the hem flutters just at the apex of my thighs. Taut, crinkled nipples press against the shiny fabric, raised high despite the pull of gravity, full, plump breasts still aching for his touch.
His pajama pants hang low, except where they tent over a thick ridge in the front. Calm and collected he may be, but certainly not unaffected.
“Don’t go taking care of that during the day.” I raise up on my elbows, nodding at his erection. “If I’m in the mood, I might consider doing something about it tonight.”
“Sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose, my dear.” With a low chuckle, he smirks and bends over to give me a hand up. Then runs a finger down the length of my nose. “To be continued.”
Chapter 26
Lunch Date
DAN
Icarry a picnic basket the second time I arrive at Shallot Consulting. The wide handles fit easily in my hands, and solid cover conceals the contents. Bits of red-and-white checked lining flash here and there between the slats, a sharp contrast to my usual beige-and-white working attire: pants, shirt, jacket, shoes. The basket wasn’t particularly heavy when first packed or when I take it out of my zipzap, but seems to gain weight with every step closer to Johanna.
What the fuck am I doing?
Rocking the boat, that’s what. Most things aren’t at risk. Family, health, job—they’ll all still be there, no matter what happens in the next hours or days.
No, what’s at stake is my contentment. My ability to be satisfied with the quiet, narrow life I’ve built for myself, and my alpha’s satisfaction, as well.
There’s no sign of Nathan or Corin, but the latter clearly paved my way. The receptionist smiles at the basket in my hands and winks at me, waving me through without anything except an arch “I believe you know where to go.”
Maybe people watch me walk down the hallway to the executive suite, I wouldn’t know because my vision narrows. The world shrinks to a straight line, only enough space for me to take one step at a time. Everything else grays out.
Blood thunders at my temples, pulsing and tapping in an unpredictable rhythm unrelated to my footsteps. As I reach the office suite, I find the door propped open, and only then do I realize the tapping is an administrative assistant rattling a keyboard with fast strokes.
“Ah ha.” They, too, take in the basket in my hands and smile. “Just a moment.”
I adjust my grip, hands slippery with sweat that soaks into the slatted handles.
The assistant flips a sign over the back of their computer reading “Out to Lunch, Back in an Hour” and hustles over to knock on Johanna’s door. They don’t wait for a reply before opening it and thrusting their head in. “Your lunch meeting is here, Johanna. I’m going to lunch myself, and Corin’s in a meeting, so I’ll hang the busy sign up on the outer door. Have fun!”
With the whistling of a wind bustling about, the assistant leaves, and I find my way to Johanna’s door. My feet evidently know the way, because I don’t remember walking. My knuckles ache from gripping the basket’s slippery handles. Heart races. Head whirls. A lump in my throat makes it hard to breathe.
Then, I see her, turning from her computer to face the door. Still her, still the young beta I knew and recognize in the mature woman I re-met for the second time yesterday.
She wasn’t expecting me, given the surprise on her face.
I swallow, twice, but the lump in my throat remains.
Her lips curve into a tentative smile that unlocks countless competing emotions to flood through me. Swamp me.
Joy, first—a fluttering in the crown of my head—that I’m seeing her again after all these years, and for a third time.
Peace—the slowing of my pulse back to its usual pace—because she hasn’t thrown me out, yet, despite now knowing exactly what I’ve done, and about my dependence on medication.
Desire—throbbing at my loins—for as she stands, her soft pink dress drapes her curves perfectly, showing off the bounty at breast and hip. She runs her hands over her sides, pulling at the fabric briefly, and unwittingly highlighting the outline of her bra and the taut circles of her nipples. Her scent flares, tangy but with hints of cedar overlaying the deep cranberry.
At this, fear quickly overwhelms joy, peace, and desire. I’m not the only one admiring her. My inner alpha rouses, more awake than in a long time.
He focuses on her. Drinks in every detail and reads more into her looks and scent than I dare.
My gaze is no longer under my sole control. He keeps flicking it up and down her. while I’d prefer to stay within polite bounds and focus on her face.
He isn’t fighting for control yet—just snatching moments when he can—but stirs an instinctive longing to snatch Johanna and touch her in ways we’ve dreamed of.
Such strength to these urges—because of her, herself, or what she represents: a second chance?
