Page 8 of Stuck with my Pack
Tyler’s hand shoots out, steadying me once more. “You’re welcome,” he says dryly, before turning his attention back to the leak. “Got any buckets?”
“In the pantry I think,” I mumble, brushing past him to go and grab them.
I hear him following me to the pantry, but I don’t look back. I locate the buckets and make a move in their direction. My arm brushes against his as we both reach for the stack of buckets, and the contact sends a spark zipping through me, so sharp and unexpected that I almost drop the bucket.
When I return, Tyler’s already rolling up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. If there were such a thing as forearm porn, his would have a starring role. “This place really is falling apart, isn’t it?” he says, more to himself than to me.
“It’s got character,” I say defensively, though my voice lacks conviction and seems more like a question.
Tyler arches an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Character doesn’t fix a leaky roof.”
He takes the buckets from me, positioning them under the most concentrated drips. I try not to notice how his hands move, strong and capable, as if they’ve spent years solving problems like this.
“Got any tools in the house?” he asks.
“I have no idea,” I admit. “But maybe in the shed.”
Tyler shrugs, heading toward the door with an easy confidence that grates against my nerves. “Stay here. I’ll give it a look,” he says, his tone casual but carrying enough authority to ripple through me.
He points to the chair as if it’s not a suggestion, and my Omega instincts flare to comply without question.
My fingers curl into fists, fighting the inexplicable urge to sit like a good girl.
“I’ll do as I want,” I snap, my voice shriller than I intend, a defiant edge slicing through the air. The words sound petulant even to me, but I can’t let him think he can waltz in here and start giving orders.
Tyler pauses, glancing back at me with an arched brow, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.
“Suit yourself,” he says, clearly amused. “But if you fall off that chair again, don’t expect me to catch you a second time.”
I bristle, warmth flooding my cheeks, betraying my frustration. He turns and heads for the shed, leaving me stewing in a whirlwind of irritation and something I refuse to name.
The ache to follow his instruction, to let someone else take control for once, wars against my pride, and it’s a battle I’m not ready to lose.
When he returns, he’s carrying a toolbox that looks like it’s seen better days. He grabs the chair I abandoned earlier and plants it under the leak.
“You hold the chair,” he instructs, climbing up with a staple gun in hand. He reaches through the hole in the ceiling and starts attaching a sheet of plastic, giving the leaks a place to collect.
“This should at least keep the water from going where we don’t want it,” he says
I step behind him, my hands gripping the edges of the chair. My eyes are level with his lower back, and I can’t help but notice the way his muscles shift under his shirt as he works. And the way he smells fills me with need and desire.
My traitorous Omega conditioning stirs, making my skin heat and pulse quicken. I can feel myself leaning in closer, taking in his delicious scent on an inhale. I close my eyes. Maybe three years without having sex is just too long of a dry spell. My Omega is almost purring. My breath hitches.
“You’re staring,” Tyler says without looking down. His voice deepens, making me think of all the things we could be doing in a bedroom. None of them include fixing a leaky roof, but I shake my head and decide denial is my best course of action.
“I’m not!” I protest, my voice cracking slightly, my eyes looking anywhere but at his back.
“Sure you’re not,” he teases, glancing down with a grin and a smolder that makes my knees feel weak.
Before I can respond, a loud crash of thunder shakes the house, and the chair wobbles beneath Tyler’s weight. My arms instantly go around his thighs, bringing my body flush against his back, with only the chair between us. My hands grip the fabric of his jeans instinctively, way too close to parts of him I have been imagining over and over since I first saw him.
“Relax,” he says, clearing his throat, his voice low and reassuring. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The way he says it—calm, steady, like an unspoken promise—sends a shiver down my spine, igniting something I thought I’d buried. Heat pools low in my stomach, and I can feel the slickness start, my body betraying every wall I’ve built.
What the hell is wrong with me? I bite my lip, desperate to ignore how my Omega biology is roaring to the surface, screaming for his touch.
The last time I was with an Alpha was a lifetime ago. The memory flickers through my mind unbidden—the raw intensity of him, the way he made me feel both claimed and untethered all at once.
