Page 59 of A Pack of Pumpkins
But Clara just… smiles. Warm and sure, like I’ve told her something worth treasuring. “That makes so much sense. You take such good care of everyone. You know what they need before they do. Like Dagan’s honey-in-coffee thing. You’d be amazing as a homemaker.”
The tightness in my chest loosens. She doesn’t just accept it, she believes it. And in that moment, I feel seen in a way I didn’t realize I’d been aching for.
We pick apples, go on hay rides, and choose pumpkins. Mine is the biggest I can carry, hers is small and flat on one side.
“It was lonely in the corner,” she says. “And I think the flat side gives it character.”
Back home, we make apple crumble. I sneak her tastes, soaking in her humming approval. We talk about her family, my childhood, the quiet in-between pieces of who we are. The rest of the pack is out doing their own stuff as is good pack etiquette when someone’s on a courting date.
When the crumble goes into the oven, I turn to ask what movie she wants to do next, but her lips are suddenly on mine. For a moment, my brain stutters. Then my arms wrap around her, one hand at her lower back, the other cupping the back of her neck. I deepen the kiss, beard brushing her jaw, my tongue sweeping inside to taste her sweet heat.
She moans into me, and I lift her onto the counter. Her legs wrap around me, pulling me close until her panty-clad heat rubs against my aching cock. I break from her mouth to trail my lips down her neck, letting the scrape of my beard tease her sensitive skin.
Herperfume swells, and a growl rumbles up from my chest. She slides a hand between us, slipping under my waistband to grip me. A sharp hiss escapes me. “Apple, if you don’t stop, I’m going to embarrass myself,” I warn, forehead dropping to her shoulder.
She chuckles and it's a wicked little thing. I take her wrist gently, pulling her hand away, then hook my thumbs in her panties and tug them down.
My hands skim her inner thighs, spreading her open. Her head falls back, throat bared. I drag my tongue from her collarbone to her ear. She shivers, the sound in her throat making my cock throb.
I free myself from my boxers, her hand immediately guiding me to her entrance. I press a thumb to her clit as I sink into her heat, slow and deliberate, groaning at the way she clenches around me.
“God, omega, you’re perfect. You were made for me,” I rasp. She claws at my shoulders, urging me faster, until her little squeaks tell me I’m hitting that perfect spot deep inside.
“Jack, I’m—g-going—”
“Come, omega. Come all over my cock,” I growl, and she breaks apart, fluttering around me. I push in, planting my knot deep inside of her, feeling it swell and expand as I mark her as deeply as I can with my come.
We breathe hard, foreheads pressed together, her braids loose and wild around her flushed face. I kiss her forehead, and she wraps her arms around my neck, holding me there like she’ll never let go.
My mate.
Clara
ThedatewithJackis still fresh in my mind when I come downstairs in the morning. I’d left him, Bram, and Dagan in the pack bed. Bram and Dagan had stayed up late working, and Jack always woke up early to make me breakfast. I figured a day to sleep in was due.
I didn’t account for the other alpha I might find first thing in the morning.
I squeak when I round the corner to see Victor at the stove. He flinches, but doesn’t bolt like he used to before the asthma attack.
Instead, he holds out a plate. “I was about to bring this up. Jack usually takes it, but I guess he’s taking a break for once.”
I eye the plate warily, but my rolling morning hunger wins. I take it, careful not to let our fingers brush.
He hands me a fork, and I sit at the island. One bite, and bliss explodes in my mouth. The first bite is molten comfort—fluffy egg, warm spice, and the faint tang of cheese. It blooms through me, knocking the morning edges off my mood. I moan before I can stop myself.
Victor’s expression stutters. “Glad you like it,” he rasps, voice gravel rough.
“Yeah, you did an okay job,” I reply. It’s petty and unkind, but I’m not built for kindness at five o’clock in the morning.
“I better have, or my bibi will rise from the grave to slap me upside the head.”
My fork pauses mid-air. “Your bibi?”
“Yeah, my grandmother on my mom's side. It’s her recipe.” He turns back to the stove, rinsing a pan.
I glance from him to my plate. Jack’s been bringing me this dish every morning since my hospital visit, but he never said he’d made it.
“You’ve been making breakfast for me every morning?” I ask, though the answer is obvious.
