Page 27 of Nursing the Alpha
“Who are you?” Flynn’s whisper hit my back as I bolted from the room.
10
FLYNN
“Hey. You haven’t fallen asleep, have you?”
The cab driver’s voice snapped me out of my head. I blinked, startled, then fumbled for the door handle. “Sorry. Sorry. Long day.”
“Yeah, well, some of us have places to be.”
I muttered another apology and climbed out onto the curb, heart still thudding. Not from the cabbie’s annoyance but from everything else swarming in my head.
Had I imagined it?
That moment earlier, lying on the sofa bed at work, on the verge of waking up. That shape hanging over me and the strange, thick warmth that had pooled in my gut. I remembered the impression of a mouth, soft lips. Suction. Wet heat over my nipple. A deep, aching sense of need.
But it couldn’t have been real… right?
It was a figment of my imagination. My body reminding me that it had been almost two years since I’d slept with anyone. Each heat I’d gone through with the help of suppressants. Still, the longer I thought about it, the moremy skin prickled. There was something off about my employer’s house. About the job, really.
No baby, no toys, no sounds.
Nothing but an oddly private room and instructions to express by hand. No one had ever asked me to do that before. It was too specific. Too personal.
I’d never run into the owners of the house either.
And now this.
I sucked in a breath, staring at the restaurant in front of me. It was too much. The building stood like a beacon of luxury on an otherwise quiet street. Muted gray stone, curved glass windows, soft golden lighting spilling onto the pavement like a red carpet. The valet out front was dressed in a full suit. So was the couple he’d just greeted.
I looked down at myself.
Black slacks, fitted button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm. Polished boots. No nursing pads tonight. I’d made sure to express right before leaving so I wouldn’t have to deal with leaking. I wanted to feel sexy, not like I was still stuck in postpartum life from over a year ago.
I took a breath.
I could do this.
It’s just dinner.
I pushed through the doors.
The air inside was softly chilled, perfumed with something earthy and subtle, and I was hit by the quiet hum of money.
Not noise.
Not clutter.
Money.
Muted jazz played from hidden speakers. Polished marble floors gleamed under soft lighting. Tables were spaced generously apart, each one draped in pale linen anddressed with a single flickering candle. The chairs were real wood, not padded banquettes. A sculptural chandelier dangled overhead, hanging like a ring of stars. It was the kind of place you reserved months in advance for anniversaries or proposals.
I swallowed and approached the reception desk.
A hostess with a sleek updo and a blazer smiled.
“Hello, welcome to Opuz. May I have your name, please?”
