God.
Her pupils are blown so wide there’s barely any color left. The gold flecks I love are swallowed whole.
Her scent thickens in the enclosed space. Caramel, yes, but sharper now. Saltier. Heated. It fills my lungs and sinks straight into my bloodstream.
This is what happens when an omega spends an entire day wrapped in her alphas’ scents. Close contact. Touch. Emotional stimulation. I've read three papers specifically on accelerated heat onset in newly scent-matched omegas. Three papers. I should have seen this coming two hours ago.
Her body is accelerating toward heat whether she wants to or not. The guilt hits fast and hard.
She’s having one helluva spike and I didn’t prepare for it. And now we’re boxed in at seventy miles an hour.
She inhales sharply, fingers trembling as they fumble at her seatbelt.
“Need…” Her voice is barely there.
Silas’s jaw tightens. “I can’t pull over.”
Heavy traffic traps us on all sides. We’re moving too fast to pull over for her to safely move to the back.
She turns again, this time fully, twisting in her seat to look at me over the console. Her golden gaze finds mine.
“You.”
The word splits me open. I forget, for a moment, that Saint is beside me. That Silas is driving. That we're doing seventy on aninterstate. For one second it's just her eyes and that word and the thing cracking open in my chest.
“Fuck,” Saint mutters beside me.
She tugs harder at the buckle, breath coming in short, uneven pulls. There’s no focus in her eyes now. Just instinct. Her omega is in full control.
“Help her,” Silas growls.
I lean forward immediately, bracing one hand on the back of her seat while the other reaches for the clasp. My fingers brush her hip. Hot, so hot. I press the release. The belt snaps free.
She sags forward, already trying to climb over the console.
“Easy,” I murmur, even though my own pulse is hammering.
Beside me, Saint hasn’t moved an inch. His shoulders are locking in place while Lark’s scent coils through the car. He won’t budge, jaw clenched, but I know his alpha instincts are screaming to claim, to knot, to give in to the pull. They’re the same instincts I’m feeling. But I’m not stubborn like Saint. I know when heaven is right in front of me.
I twist toward him. His body is rigid, eyes dark. “Help me get her back here.”
Not a request.
She’s already halfway over the console, reaching for me. And there is not a single part of me that hesitates.
“Come here, beautiful.” I pull her into my lap so that she’s facing forward. She smells like hot caramel and salt and something earthier underneath. Her omega is in full bloom. It hits the back of my throat like something I want to drown in.
“Let us get these pants off you.” In my haste, I fumble with the buttons on her waistband.
“For god’s sake,” Saint growls before leaning forward and undoing them.
She leans as far back into my chest as she’s able to while I lift her hips and Saint tugs down her jeans. They get stuck on her shoes, so he bends down and pulls those off, too.
“Tell me what you need, Lark,” I huff. My cock is so hard it hurts as she grinds her dripping cunt on my lap like she’s trying to fuck me through my clothes.
“Knot,” she whines.
A collective groan fills the car.
