I hate wearing mine. The only time I truly catch my scent anymore is when I’m in bed with Mark. My omega can almost break through with him sometimes. It’s terrifying, but maybe that’s why I can’t stay away.
Thoughts of Mark’s hands on my body and the way he pulls orgasm after orgasm out of me have my belly clenching in desire. If I could currently make slick, which thankfully, the high-powered suppressant I’m on prevents, it would be running down my thighs.
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the images, which makes the room spin at the edges. I don’t get to be a needy omega. Not in this world. Not ever.
“Ms. Kendrick!” Another voice calls me, and I school my expression before turning. It’s a banking executive I recognize from other galas, Alastar Greene—a tall, silver-haired alpha who always reeks faintly of cigar smoke.
He grasps my hand, tugging on me in a way that sets my teeth on edge, as if he somehow has the right to lead me where hewants me to go. “We were just discussing some of your more controversial opinions on omega rights, and I thought, why not get it directly from the horse’s mouth?”
I pull my hand out of his with a glower, barely keeping my lip from curling in disgust. “Controversial? Basic human decency is controversial now?”
He chuckles, low and condescending, and looks over at two nearby alphas, one of whom is openly leering at me. “See, boys, I told you she’s a firecracker.”
I laugh, matching his energy. “Does that usually work with impressing women? This whole,” I gesture lazily, “negging thing you have happening right now?”
The leering alpha scoffs. “Relax. We’re just having a little fun.”
I look around dramatically. “Who iswe? I’m not having fun, and it certainly doesn’t appear that you three have the faintest idea how to make a woman have fun.”
A few nearby guests go still, watching us with interest.
Greene forces a chuckle, though I can tell he’s embarrassed. “Now, Ava, there’s no need to get hostile.”
“First of all, I did not give you permission to call me Ava,” I say, tilting my head and giving him a wide, sickly sweet smile. “And if we want to talk about hostile, I think you inviting me over to mock my beliefs and leer at me like a piece of meat is far closer to the definition. I haven’t even begun to get hostile; you’ll know it when I do.”
The leering alpha bristles. “You think you’re better than us?”
I laugh so hard, I nearly cry. “Yes.”
I spin on my heel and walk away, leaving him red-faced and angry, muttering “fucking bitch” loudly enough that I can still hear him. It’s a risk, turning my back to an angry alpha, but we had enough attention on us that he won’t do anything publicly. Still, it’s probably my cue to leave the party so he doesn’t have a chance to corner me alone.
I slip my phone from my clutch, and before I know it, I have my text conversation with Mark open. I haven’t deleted it in a while, so the string of “come over” and “my place, 20 minutes” messages is a little embarrassing. My pulse skips, and my thumb hovers over the letters, trying to think of what I’d even say.
“I’m bored and just pissed off an alpha. Come get me”?
“I miss you”?
No. Absolutely not. With a decisive motion, I power the phone down and slide it back into my bag. Out of sight, out of temptation. I can have the front desk call Tony. The hotel’s valets are used to drunk patrons stumbling out in designer heels.
I snag another glass of champagne and make my way toward the lobby.
I’m not going to text him.
I repeat it to myself over and over as everything around me gets blurry at the edges.
Chapter Twelve
Mark
I rub the towel over my hair before hanging it up on the shower bar. I resist the urge to go into my bedroom and check my phone for the hundredth time. I’d gotten pissed at my lack of self-control earlier, so I’d thrown it on the charger and gone down to the gym on the lower floor of my apartment building to work out my frustration.
It’s after midnight now. Ava clearly won’t be reaching out, and I’m not prepared to be the one that breaks the silence. I’ve done so the last two times. My ego can’t handle a third.
When I open the fridge, the cans of her favorite energy drink that I stashed in there a few days ago mock me, silently calling me a fucking loser. Jesus. It’s no wonder she doesn’t want me.
I’m not typically one to struggle with these kinds of feelings, and they make me angry all over again. I’m smart, handsome, well-off, and popular. So why does this one damn woman make me feel like something she found on the bottom of her heels because she doesn’t want to do anything more than fuck me? Is it because she’s part of New York City’s upper crust and I’m just some hick from Missouri?
I slam the fridge door closed, making the items inside and on top of it rattle. I blow a breath out, shaking my head. I need to take my ass to bed. It’s too late for a self-deprecating thought spiral over my situationship.
