His eyes darken.
“I’m yours.” I let that sit for a moment. “And you’re mine.”
Something deep and possessive flashes through his expression. “Little bird,” he rumbles. His hand settles against my waist, firm and warm. “I’ve always been yours.”
He leans down, brushing another kiss across my lips. His large hands skim down my body until they reach the hem of my skirt. His fingers slide up my thigh, deftly pulling my panties to the side.
“You’re always so wet for me,” he says against my lips before dipping a finger inside me.
I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer, marking my scent everywhere my cheeks and neck can touch, as I ride his hand.
His thumb circles my clit while his fingers set a steady rhythm plunging in and out of my channel.
“Fuck, Silas,” I gasp.
“That’s it, love. Come for me. I want you to gush your slick all over daddy’s fingers. Then I’ll lick it all off.”
I detonate. Right there in a cancer treatment center parking lot. My body jerks and shudders while slick floods Silas’ hand.
I collapse against the seat. “That was—” I sit up, suddenly embarrassed now that the orgasm has passed. “Oh, shit. Do you think anyone saw us?”
He chuckles around the fingers that he’s currently licking clean. “Don’t worry, little bird. The windows are blacked out. I’ll never let anyone other than Graham or Saint see you like that.” He runs his tongue along the palm of his hand. More slick wets my thighs.
“God, you smell so good. You make it almost impossible to keep my promise to you.”
“I don’t want you to keep that promise,” I say with no small amount of petulance.
“Brat.” He tweaks my nose. He twists his enormous frame between the front seats, then sits back holding fast food napkins like they’re a prize. I spread my legs and allow him to clean me.
“I need to throw these away, but I don’t want anyone to smell you, even if it’s on a paper napkin coming from a garbage can.”
“Oh, shit!” I snap my legs together. “Our scents! Lucy will come back and know what we’ve been doing.”
“Lucy lost her sense of smell about a month ago. It’s a common side-effect of her treatment. For omegas.”
My own omega recoils. An omega without her sense of smell. I don’t even like to contemplate it.
“Temporary,” he goes on. “She won’t be able to scent a thing, though she may guess when she sees the glazed look in your eyes.”
“In that case,” I giggle, spreading my legs apart. “Maybe you can do something to keep that look on my face. If she sees it enough, she’ll think it’s normal.”
His hand slides down my thigh. “We have fifteen minutes.”
Saint
I’m in my coffee kitchen when Lark finds me. Roaster prepped, drum sitting just over four-twenty, perfect for the espresso I use to make Lark’s brown sugar lattes. That’s the key to getting it right. A roast that lands just below medium-dark, less than what you might think would go in a latte.
In here, everything follows rules. Temperature. Time. Pressure. You get out exactly what you put in. I haven't figured out how to apply that logic to the rest of my life.
The day I walked out of Riverside Elite Heat Clinic, I was lost. I had nowhere to go. Couldn’t go back to the station. Couldn’t come home. So I went to Nayda’s Café. I ordered three brown sugar lattes in a row and sat there for two hours studying the flavor. The texture. The specific ratio of sweet to bitter that she'd described when we were texting.
I told myself I was just curious. I knew I was lying.
I didn’t expect to be making them every morning for her before work. Hell, I wasn’t even sure that I’d ever see her again. I just knew that I needed to understand how to make them. To get a feel for why she likes them so much.
I know the moment she walks in the door. Her salty-caramel scent spikes the air, overpowering the coffee smell that permeates every crevice of this space.
“Oh, wow,” she gasps. “This is like a real coffee kitchen. I thought Silas was exaggerating when he told me about it.”
