"You growled at the legal associate, too. I saw it from across the hall. You growled under your breath hard enough that your assistant looked up."
My mouth thins because he's right, even if I didn’t recognize in the moment I had been doing it. "That was a territorial reflex. It doesn't mean anything."
"Sure it doesn't." His thumb strokes across my knuckles. "Just like the jacket doesn't mean anything."
"What jacket?"
"Mattaniah has your jacket. The one you wore on Friday. He told Tamsin he's keeping it in his cubicle so it doesn't wrinkle, which is the worst excuse I've ever heard because the Omega is building a nest and he doesn't even know it yet."
My knot pulses inside him, the image of Mattaniah with his face pressed into my jacket forming before I can squash it.
"That doesn't mean anything either," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
My knot slowly deflates and I pull out carefully, watching my release leak from him and drip down his inner thigh. The sight of it sends a possessive surge through me that I don't bother suppressing. I tuck myself back in and drop into my desk chair, before reaching into the bottom drawer for the pack of wipes I keep next to the lube. Amos is still bent over the desk, his breathing evening out, his pants around his thighs.
"Come here." I pull him between my spread legs by the hip and he goes, pliant in the aftermath the way he only gets after I've fucked the tension out of him. I clean him up myself, wiping the mess from between his thighs with careful strokes, then his cock. His hand rests on my shoulder, his thumb tracing circles against my neck while I work.
"You don't have to do that," he murmurs.
"I know I don't have to." I toss the used wipes in the trash and pull his boxers and pants up, fastening his belt with the same efficiency I used to remove it before tending to my own cock. My palm presses flat against his stomach once we’re both dressed, holding him there between my knees for a beat longer than necessary. "I wanted to."
He looks down at me, his bond mark swollen and red from my teeth as his hands come up to my face. "I don't hate that I love him, Dom." His voice is steady now. "And I don't think you hate it either."
I don't answer because the answer would crack open something I'm not ready to let out. "I don't hate that you love him. I hate that I'm starting to understand why."
Amos smiles at me, but doesn't push for more. He never does when I've given him as much as I can manage, and that's one of the reasons I've loved him for thirteen years.
He picks up his scattered reports and straightens his glasses before tugging his collar up over the newest mark I gave him and heading for the door. "Same time for dinner? Mattaniah mentioned he's cooking tonight because the housekeeper's off and the parents are fucking off for the night."
"He cooks?"
"Apparently, he worked at an Italian restaurant for two years." Amos pauses in the doorway. "He's making carbonara. Try not to growl at anyone between now and then."
He leaves. My phone buzzes ten minutes later with a text from Mattaniah.
Is carbonara okay? I don't know what you or Amos like. I can make something else if that's easier.
Carbonara is fine, firefly.
The three dots appear, disappear, and appear again.Please don't call me that over text. What if someone sees your phone?
Then they'll know I have good taste in Omegas.
A long pause. The dots appear and disappear three times before the reply finally comes through.
That's not funny. I'm serious, Dominic. If your father sees that I'll have to explain why his son is calling me firefly and I don't have an explanation that doesn't end with me being homeless.
Nobody touches my phone. Relax.
Easy for you to say. You've never had to explain yourself to anyone.
7pm. Don't overcook the pasta.
I worked in an Italian restaurant for two years. I'm not going to overcook the pasta.
Then stop texting me and go prep your mise en place.
I don't even know what that means and I know you just looked it up.
