I’ll just switch off the lights, lock the door, and then head to my room.
I pull the sheets back and slide beneath them, not bothering to put on any pajamas. I rarely do. One perk to living alone. Like most alphas, I run pretty hot. Settled in bed, I finally give in and grab my phone off the charger, the glow illuminating the dark room. Unsurprisingly, I have no new texts.
I click through a few different apps, mindlessly scrolling, before finally opening the dating app I keep deleting and reactivating. I scroll through a few profiles, mostly swiping left on ones I’m not interested in. There are some that I swipe right on, but I feel my stomach drop when I get the alert that one of them is a match.
Probably not the response you should have when matching with a beautiful woman on a dating app.
Her name is Marnie, and she’s a 27-year-old omega. Which I wish I had noticed before I swiped on her. I don’t typically date omegas.
Her message pops up before I can even back out of the match.
“Hi Mark ??”
That stupid little face makes something feel funny in my chest. Friendly. Harmless. Which it should be. Just two people flirting on a dating app. An omega and an alpha, as natural as it gets. Only it’s never felt that way to me. I don’t like their scents. They always seem almost… sticky.
I shut my eyes, the ghost of Ava’s scent sliding into my memory without permission. God, if I could find an omega that made me respond the way that Ava’s elusive creamsicle scent does, I’d bond with her in an instant.
Maybe I should give Marnie a shot. What if her scent is finally one I like?
I type back.
“Hi Marnie. I’m about to head to bed, but would love to chat tomorrow?”
And then, just to match her, I send a second message of a smiley face. Like an idiot.
I groan and back out of the chat window, setting the phone face-down on my nightstand. My chest rises and falls like I just finished another round at the gym. It’s just a stupid message on a dating app. Ava and I are not exclusive, and we need to end this thing.
So why do I feel like I’m cheating?
I should be thinking about my upcoming cases. I have another round with Ava in the heiress case, and then opening arguments against a different defense attorney. I’ll rip that person to shreds, so I’m honestly not overly concerned about it, but that’s not the point.
My phone dings, and even though I know it’s almost certainly a response from Marnie, I still snatch it up quickly.
“Sweet dreams!” ??
I shove both hands into my hair and sit up, restless.
Just then, I hear the telltale sound of the front door keypad beeping quietly from someone entering the code, followed by the sound of the lock turning. Only three people know the code to my front door: my sister, my housecleaner, and Ava.
Given the time of night, I know which one is most likely. Sure enough, I hear the sound of heels on my hardwood, then a softoomphas if she ran into the hallway table. She giggles softly, and a wolfish grin splits my face.
Is Ava Kendrick a little tipsy?
My door opens, and she’s there, backlit by the light above the stove in the kitchen like some kind of angel. I reach over and flip on the lamp, taking her in. Her dress, if you can call it that, looks like she has nothing but gems pasted to her body. The underlining matches her skin tone perfectly, and it’s so sheer, I can see the tiny scrap of jeweled thong that barely covers the mound of her pussy.
My mouth practically waters, even as possessive jealousy tears through me. The idea that other men got to see her in that outfit makes my fists clench. “Ava, what the hell?”
She giggles again and grips the skirt of the dress at her hips, shimmying it up until she can pull it over her head and toss it to the floor. She kicks out of her heels, sending each one flying in a different direction across my bedroom. One crashes into my dresser, sending one of my watches toppling to the floor.
“Oopsie,” Ava says, her mouth pouting outward and her eyes widening. “Don’t be mad. I’ll buy you a new watch if it’s broken. I’ll buy you whatever you want.” Her words are slurred, and I’m quickly realizing she passedtipsyquite a while back.
She crawls on the bed, straddling my hips. Her scent is the pleasant, muted orange it normally is, but it’s closer to the smell of a mimosa now. Oranges layered with the sharp sweetness of champagne.
“You get a little wasted at whatever fancy party you were at tonight?” I ask, allowing myself the liberty of sliding my hands onto her hips. I already know I won’t let it go further; she can’t consent in this state. Her skin is silky smooth beneath my palm, contrasted by the sharp bite of the gems lining her thong.
This is going to be hard. I certainly am.
“It was boooooring. My date said it was a turn-off to see a woman drinking. So I drank more.” She giggles and runs her fingers down my chest.
