Page 8 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

Maybe he’d stay a few more days.

Not forever. I wasn’t stupid.

But another night or two? Another round—or hell, two more rounds ofthat? I wouldn’t complain. I’d gladly bend my rules alittle for the way he moved. The way he tasted. The way he said my name like it belonged in his mouth.

Just a two more nights, I told myself.

And then he could go back to France. Or Belgium. Or wherever the fuck he came from.

I didn’t care.

His hand skimmed lazily up and down my spine, fingertips tracing soft lines, like he was drawing me into something quieter than I wanted to feel. I liked the aftermath of sex to be quiet, unspoken. A space to enjoy the high without letting the world creep in.

But apparently, Sebastian Laurente didn’t do quiet.

“So,” he murmured, lips brushing my temple, “what do you do, champagne girl? Besides destroy men in bed?”

I tensed, just slightly.

“Does it matter?” I said, keeping my tone light. “It’s just one night, right?”

He pulled back just enough to catch my expression, one brow lifting like I’d just handed him an unexpected puzzle.

“You don’t want to talk? Not even a little post-orgasmic soul-baring?”

I gave him a flat look. “You’re notthatgood.”

He laughed, low and amused, unbothered by the wall I was putting up. “No offense, Ada, but usually when I end up in bed with an omega, they’re the ones looking for forever. Talking about claiming, bonding, picket fences and scent-matching pheromone balms.”

“Gross,” I muttered, rolling onto my back. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

“Exactly. I’m the one who usually has to fake a phone call or jump out the window.”

I snorted despite myself. “I use scent blockers.”

That made him pause. He looked down at me, brows raised.“Seriously?”

I nodded, unapologetic. “Every day. Keeps things clean. Professional.”

He gave a low whistle. “You’re something else.”

“And you’re an alpha who tries too hard.”

“I don’t try at all,” he replied, smug. “That’s the problem.”

I turned my head to look at him. “Well, I’m not interested in long-term anything. So if you’re worried about me clinging to your leg when you leave, don’t be. This is just sex.”

He was quiet for a beat. Not offended—just... surprised.

Then he grinned, bright and slow. “No complaints from me. You don’t want commitment. I don’t do commitment. Look at us—perfect.”

He leaned in and kissed me again—lazy, heated, too damn good for my own sanity.

When he pulled back, his voice dropped to that silk-wrapped tone again. “And since I’m naked, and you’re naked, how about we order some room service and go for a second round?”

I raised a brow. “Is that your idea of foreplay?”

“It’s effective, isn’t it?”

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