Page 88 of Down Knot Out
He feeds me another piece, this one larger, juice running down my chin as my teeth sink into it. The sweetness bursts across my tongue, but it pales in comparison to the hunger building in his expression. His free hand cups my jaw, thumb catching the escaped juice before it can drip onto my onesie.
Lightning illuminates the kitchen in stark white relief for a heartbeat, followed by the boom of thunder, the storm directly overhead now.
He reaches for another strawberry but hesitates. “I can’t give you the kind of protection the others can offer.” He looks down at the fruit staining his skin. “The only thing I'm good for is feeding people. How can that ever be enough?”
The strawberry slips from his grip and rolls away.
“It already is.” I place my hands over his. “A pack made up of carbon copies isn’t complete. Omegas are supposed to be the homekeepers?—”
“No.” His finger covers my lips. “You don’t have to fit into an expected role.”
I pull his hand away. “Then why do you? What’s so bad about taking care of our pack?” I tighten my legs around his hips. “Taking care ofmein the way no other Alpha can?”
I close the distance this time, pressing my lips to his, asking him to be the Alpha I need, not the Alpha he thinks he should be.
His kiss starts soft, a whisper of vanilla and strawberries. But when I sigh into his mouth, when my hands fist in his T-shirt to pull him closer, the careful restraint unravels. His lips move with increasing urgency, tongue tracing the seam of my mouth until I open for him.
The kiss deepens and becomes more desperate. My ankles hook behind his waist, heels digging into his ass through his jeans. His hands slide from my face to tangle in the pink waves of my hair, tilting my head to deepen the angle until I’m breathless with want.
Rain lashes the windows with renewed fury,each gust of wind howling. But here in our circle of light, wrapped in his warmth and the scent of baking scones, the storm feels harmless.
His fingers find the zipper at my throat, fingers trembling as he pulls it downward. Cool air kisses my skin as the fabric falls open, revealing only a thin white tank top beneath. His touch traces the lines of my collarbone and the swell of my breasts through the cotton.
I grip the waistband of his jeans, tugging him closer until no space exists between us. The hard length of him, covered in denim, nudges me where I need him most, drawing a soft moan from my throat.
His mouth finds my neck, lips and teeth working the sensitive skin until my head falls back. Each kiss sends fire racing through my veins, pooling low in my belly where heat builds with increasing urgency. The vanilla scent of his pheromones mingles with the musk of arousal, forming an intoxicating blend that draws a deep ache from within, and my inner muscles tighten with anticipation.
The sharp beep of the timer shatters the moment, insistent in the charged air between us. We freeze, mouths still connected, breathing hard in the sudden interruption.
“No,” I groan into his shoulder, my frustration muffled by his T-shirt. “Ignore it.”
His chuckle vibrates through his chest and into mine. “You’re the one who said scones first.”
The timer continues to go off, each beep sounding more insistent.
With visible effort, Holden pulls back, his hands lingering on my thighs as if reluctant to break contact. “They’ll burn.”
With a sigh, I unhook my ankles to let him go.
He moves to the oven, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing beneath his T-shirt as he bends to pull the tray out of the oven. The scones emerge golden and perfect, their surfaces dotted with jewel-bright strawberries. Steam rises from their tops, my mouth watering at the scent of butter and vanilla.
He sets the pan on the cooling rack and turns to the refrigerator. Soft light spills across his face as he retrieves a bowl of whipped cream, the ceramic cold enough for condensation to bead along its surface.
“Quality control,” he says, returning to stand between my legs with a single scone balanced on his fingertips. “Can’t serve imperfect pastry to my pack.”
The word sends a shiver of possession throughme, especially spoken in a rough tone that promises a continuation of what we started. He tears off a piece of the scone, its fluffy interior steaming, and piles whipped cream on top until it nearly overflows.
“Careful,” he warns, lifting it toward my mouth. “It’s hot.”
The cream melts down the sides of the scone, running down his knuckles in slow rivulets. As I lean forward, lips parting to accept the bite, cream drips onto the swell of my breast, just above the neckline of my tank top.
I take the bite, moaning at how sweet it is, before I look down. “You made a mess.”
Holden tracks the pale trail as it disappears beneath white cotton, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips. “This reminds me of the first time we met.”
Heat floods my cheeks as the memory surfaces. I had still been disguised as Aurora Storm. “You threw a cake at me.”
“I tripped and you walked into the kitchen at the exact wrong moment,” he corrects, his lips twitching. “When you scooped the buttercream off your cleavage and popped it into your mouth...”
