Page 10 of The Bright Omega

My shoes fall to the floor. I forgot I was even holding them.

One of his hands slides to the back of my thigh and lifts, and my leg wraps around his hip on instinct. The feel of him, the length of him, through his slacks, pressed exactly right against exactly the right place. It draws a sound out of me that I would be embarrassed about if I had any blood left in my brain.

His hand slides between us. He is not tentative about it. One tug, and the wrap dress is wide open. Cool air hits my skin, then his hot palm. Two thick fingers slide through how embarrassingly wet I am, and he groans low against my mouth.

He doesn’t tease. He rubs tight, mean circles right where I need it, like he’s already learned my body in the last thirty seconds. I’m grinding against his hand and whimpering into his neck, drunk on woodsmoke and that bright rain-grass scent that’s making my brain work at half-capacity.

I come thinking about both of them, this one’s rough hands and the faceless other one’s clean scent. I imagine them taking turns, then taking me at the same time. The fantasy tips me over hard.

He holds me up as I ride it out. One big arm locked around my waist. I’m still twitching when I rasp against his throat. “Tell your packmate I said hi.” Then I close my eyes and try desperately to make my legs work again.

I take a moment to come back to myself. Maybe two, if I’m being honest.

He's watching my face, and I have the distinct impression he's been watching it the whole time, which should feel like too much and instead feels like it’s the way it should be. "That was for your omega," he says, dragging his thumb across my bottom lip.

I catch it between my teeth, just long enough to make a point. “And what about the rest of me?”

He huffs then adjusts himself. He ties the wrap dress back together with steady fingers, knuckles brushing the underside of my breast. Shameless omega that I am, I lean into it.

He’s unhurried and totally unbothered. Then he turns to the elevator panel, produces a key from his pocket, and fits it into the panel. The elevator hums back to life.

I stare at the key. Is he the super? I have never seen this man in my building, not once, and I have lived here for three years. I know the super's name is David. He is sixty-two years old and wears orthopedic shoes. He does not finger bang unsuspecting, but totally grateful, omegas in the elevator.

The doors open on twenty. I pick up my shoes and step out, then turn back before the doors can close.

He's watching me. Hands in his pockets now. Completely composed, like he didn't just take me apart.

“I’m in twenty-A,” I tell him, voice still a little rough.

The doors close. I stand in the hallway with my YSLs dangling from my fingers and the smell of woodsmoke on my skin.

My omega is purring like a well-fed cat and would very much like to curl up on him and stay there indefinitely. I, however, am standing barefoot already wondering how long I have to wait before I text Lucy that I got finger-fucked by what might be our new building super.

seven

Camelia

It’s been four days since the elevator Viking rearranged my brain chemistry and I still haven’t recovered. Not that I’m trying especially hard. Every time I close my eyes I smell woodsmoke and that bright thread of rain-grass underneath it, and my omega does a full-body, happy wiggle like she’s been promised a lifetime supply of knots and cuddles.

Unfortunately, real life has not provided any knots. Or cuddles. So instead of hunting down the man who finger-banged me into the next week, I am currently standing in front of my mirror trying to decide if my dress says casual but could still get railed in a bathroom. It’s a pink leopard print bodycon, so that’s a no on casual.

It’s the Douglas Pack tonight. Five of them. Yes, five. Their profile pictures consist of individual headshots, which is odd but workable. Two of them are legitimately hot. Dark-haired, broad-shouldered, the kind of jawlines that make smart girls stupid. The other three? They’re perfectly adequate. Their bio was three sentences long and mostly said they like hiking, whiskey, and “good conversation.” Which is code for absolutely nothing, but it’s drinks, not a blood oath. I can survive drinks.

Seth from Pack Albright has texted me twice since our date offering unsolicited investment advice. I thanked him for the first one like a polite omega and left the second on read. I’m not encouraging that nonsense. My retirement plan is currently “look hot, let Silas do whatever with the rest, and hope someone rich gets obsessed with me.” Two out of three are currently working for me.

Lark is buried in OmegaBox stuff and Saint stuff, and Lucy is off doing whatever absurdly nerdy college stuff she does on Wednesday nights. So no backup venting available. I’m flying solo.

I swipe on a little extra lipstick and grab my keys.

“Alright, Douglas alphas,” I mutter to my reflection. “Please be at least interesting enough that I can go ten minutes without thinking about my mystery elevator alpha.”

My omega perks up at the memory of the elevator. Hopeful little gremlin.

“Down, girl. We’re trying the pack thing first.”

Tinto’s is actually nice. Dark wood, warm low lighting, a marble bar running down the center, and enough booths along the walls to feel intimate without being claustrophobic. Way better than the sterile steakhouse the Albright Pack picked. This date is already looking more promising than my last.

I spot the big round booth in the back corner before I even finish scanning the room. Five guys. One of them waves like he’s trying to flag down a plane.