We finish the dishes. At the bottom of the stairs he catches my wrist and pulls me into one more kiss, this one softer than the kitchen ambush, his mouth warm against mine, his hand cupping the back of my neck. When he pulls away his tie catches on my shoulder, the loose fabric pulling away from his neck. He reaches for it, then stops.
"Keep it," he says.
"I don't need your scarf."
"Keep it anyway." He tucks a curl behind my ear. "Sleep well, Niah."
Dominic
Thepackagearrivesatmy office at nine in the morning in discreet matte black packaging with no logo and no return address. Amos ordered it through a service that caters to Alphas who value privacy, and I open it at my desk to examine the contents. The box contains four pairs of underwear made from a wicking fabric designed for Omegas who produce excess slick between heats. The material is thin enough to be comfortableand absorbent enough to prevent the kind of workplace disaster Mattaniah barely survived two weeks ago.
Amos spent three nights researching the options before presenting me with a spreadsheet ranking fabric compositions against absorbency ratings. When I pointed out that a spreadsheet was excessive for underwear, he told me that Mattaniah's dignity wasn't something he was willing to leave to guesswork. I didn't argue with that.
Mattaniah is at his desk on the executive floor when I text him.Come to my office on your break. Bring nothing.
The response takes forty seconds.Is this a work thing or a you thing?
It's a me thing.
Three dots appear and disappear twice before the reply comes through.Give me twenty minutes.
He shows up in eighteen. His hair is pulled back, his shirt is buttoned to the collar, and his posture carries the rigid perfection Richard's ruler has drilled into him. But his scent warms the second he crosses my threshold, sweetening beneath the blocker despite his best efforts.
"Close the door." I nod to the chair across from my desk. "Sit."
He closes the door and sits with his hands folded in his lap, his eyes flicking to the matte black box on my desk and back to my face. "What's that?"
I push the box across the desk. "Open it."
He pulls the box toward him and lifts the lid. His brow furrows as he unfolds the first pair, holding them up to examine the fabric. They look like normal underwear, dark gray and well-made and completely unremarkable. His confusion lasts three seconds before comprehension hits and color floods his face from his collar to his hairline.
"These are..." He swallows. "These are slick panties."
"Amos researched them. The fabric is designed to absorb and contain Omega slick during spikes and pre-heat episodes." I keep my voice level. "You won't have to worry about leaking through your clothes at work. You won't need to keep a change of pants in your desk drawer or worry about your scent blasting through the workplace should another incident happen."
His fingers rub the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. The flush hasn't faded but his expression has shifted from embarrassment to something more complicated. "You bought me underwear."
"Amos bought you underwear. I'm delivering it." I round the desk and lean against the front of it, close enough that he has to tilt his chin up to hold my gaze. "The practical reason is what I just told you. Your slick situation is getting worse and you shouldn't have to spend your workday terrified of leaking through your pants."
"And the impractical reason?"
I take the underwear from his hands and hold them up. "No one else needs to know what you smell like when you're wet, Mattaniah. That scent belongs to us. These keep it contained so every Alpha in the building isn't walking around with your slick in their nose."
His lips part. The flush deepens and his scent spikes as my cock thickens in response. His gaze darts to the growing bulge between my thighs before returning to my face, his scent spiking sharper. Unfortunately, that will have to be dealt with later.
"Put them on."
"Right now?"
"Right now." I fold the pair in my hand and hold them out. "Bathroom's through that door."
He takes them and stands, making it three steps toward the bathroom before stopping to turn back to me. "You're goingto stand here while I change my underwear in your office bathroom."
"I'm going to do more than stand here." I cross my arms. "Leave the door open."
His mouth opens and closes. His scent blooms further despite the flush on his face, his body answering the command even as his expression fights it. "You're unbelievable," he mutters, but he walks into the bathroom, leaving it open for me anyway.
From my position against the desk I have a clear line of sight through the doorway. He stands in front of the bathroom mirror and unbuttons his pants with shaking hands, pushing them down his thighs. His current underwear is damp, a visible patch of wetness at the front that confirms every practical argument I just made. He peels them off with his face burning and steps into the new pair, pulling them up over his thighs and settling them against his hips.
