Not that I know much about it besides the occasional remark of my beauty as an example of the exotic Brazilian girls. Comments like that always got me in trouble, as if they didn’t make me feel uncomfortable, too. I always resented those moments; I don’t even know why I told Jesse about my mother. It’s not usually something I share.
The singer starts, and even though I don’t understand a word of what he’s saying, my heart flips around my chest. After a whole life of people objectifying me when they learn where my mother came from, this is more than a fresh start. This is something so beautiful, it makes my heart ache.
My tongue tastes the gratefulness I feel before I form them into words, but when I turn to Jesse, I don’t see a man enjoying the music. His eyes are hard on the road, his hands tense on the steering wheel. I’ve never seen him this serious.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he replies rather quickly.
“There’s something wrong?” I know there is, but I ask anyway. He shakes his head stiffly, and I feel like I did something wrong.
Oh no.
“It’s my smell, isn’t it?”
seventeen
Jesse
“What?”
Harder than I’ve ever been before, I open all the windows, trying to take the pressure off. I can barely think straight with her perfume up in my nose, like she’s grabbing my cock in her hands. I definitely can’t drive safely like this.
An Omega perfumes when they are pleased, when they are spoiled as they should. Pleasing them is a raw need inside every Alpha. They are the sun, and we follow them wherever they go. I didn’t think it would be like this without scent-matching.
It’s too easy to make Veda perfume. I’m not complaining, her taste is delicious on the tip of my tongue. I want to bury my head between her thighs and never leave. I want to make her come again and again, let her ride my tongue for her enjoyment until I can’t breathe. Of course, I’m not allowed to do that. She’s not mine to keep. It doesn’t matter how I feel.
But moments like this make my mind wander.
She was never treated right. A healthy Omega wouldn’t perfume for something so freaking small. A healthy Omega is a spoiled Omega. YetI know Veda doesn’t know softness. It cuts me when I do the simplest things for her, and her eyes shine with gratitude.
Why doesn't she expect me to feed her every morning? Why does she look close to tears when I found a Brazilian artist for her to listen to?
If she wasn’t ever treated right, why can’t I keep her? I’d cook for her every day of her life. I’d make sure she’s comfortable and has everything she needs. I’d introduce softness into her life. I’d show her that the greatest gift she could ever give me is her smile.
I don’t need anything else to survive.
“I heard you guys talking about my smell. I’m showering so much, Jesse, I promise. I think I’m nose blind. I can’t smell what you guys are talking about. I’m so embarrassed.” She buries her face in her hands so the next words are muffled. “I’m sorry!”
It takes me a moment to understand what she’s talking about, but when it finally clicks, laughter bubbles from my chest, impossible to hold back. It’s criminal that her mind goes to the worst-case scenario every time.
“Sweetheart…” I shake my head, at a loss for words.
She eyes me through the gap between her fingers and then shifts on the seat, moving a half an inch from me. Yeah, that won’t work for me. Growling, I grab her knee to keep her in place.
The space between us is already torture. I need her closer, not farther away. Her leg is warm beneath my palm and so damn soft that I groan, which kicks off another wave of her perfume. I roll my shoulders, trying to grip to the very little sanity that’s left.
“Your scent is delicious, Veda. It’s so fucking sweet it’s hard to think.”
“Oh—” She hiccups. “I thought… No one has ever said that to me. I didn’t think you meant it as a good thing.”
Of course she didn’t. My fingers flex over her leg, carving into her flesh. “It’s so good, sweetheart. You smell like sugar, like a whole damn bakery.”
My tongue peeks out, and I lick the air. I’m so damn hard I refrain from humping the fucking air. I don’t want to scare the girl, and goddammit, Veda is the scared type. She’s always waiting around, assuming she’s the punchline of every joke.
Nah, I refuse to let her think the worst of me for even a second. It doesn’t matter if I have to show up for this woman again and again, she’s going to learn to trust me.
“It’s ironic that a celiac smells like a bakery,” she wrinkles her nose in the cutest way.
