Page 11 of Omega's Forbidden Heat
“Stop that.” She freezes, her fingers hovering at her cleavage, glancing up at him with big eyes. He looks away and passes her the water. “Drink it all.”
Gingerly, she takes a sip, continuing to peer up at him above the rim of the glass with those big brown eyes. “I can’t drink any more. It’s making me feel sick.”
“Omega,” he says, “drink it.”
She glares up at him, but does as he says. When the glass is empty, she slams it on the bedside table and slinks down into the mattress. Her top is now half undone and he catches a glimpse of black lacy bra and cleavage. His eyes linger there longer than they should, before he forces them away, arousal swimming from his groin around his body. Her own eyes drift closed and he lifts a blanket up the bed and over her body.
“Don’t go, Alpha,” she mutters sleepily.
The word, that name, on her lips is like torture. So sweet sounding. So innocent. It’s another invitation. He wonders at his own restraint. It’s something he’s had to master, to learn how to hold back the animal inside him, to cage it and tame it. He can’t afford to have his hackles rising every time some twat calls him a name or squares up to him. But he’s been less tested in his restraint for an Omega. And not an Omega like her. Who seems to smell sweeter every moment he is in her company, who’s laid out like that on her bed, in her nest, like a feast for the eating. There is an almost physical pull towards her that he fights against, biting his cheek so hard he tastes blood in his mouth and sinking his nails deep into the flesh of his palm, needing the pain to reorientate himself, to drag himself back to reason before he does something he’ll regret.
She murmurs, her plump pink lips quivering with nonsense words and she rolls onto her side, her top catching beneath her, exposing more of her tit, the slightest hint of pink nipple visible above the cup of her bra.
Taking a step back, he fists his hands even tighter, his eyes screwed shut, and then takes another step away and another and another until he is out in the hallway and rushing down the stairs.
At the bottom, he hunches over his knees and takes several fierce inhales, attempting to extinguish the desire flaming in his veins, beating down the Alpha urge to run up the stairs and take the Omega, his hardness straining in his pants. He focuses all his attention on his heartbeat, willing it to slow, to pound with less force, and gradually, gradually he regains control. When his hands stop shaking, he finds the packet of suppressants and takes two pills.
In the lounge, he nudges Finn awake, sending him up to bed. It’s nearly two o’clock so he grabs a blanket from the airing cupboard and flops back into the sofa. There’s a guest room upstairs with a perfectly good bed, but something tells him sleeping on the same floor as the Omega would not be a good idea.
Fourteen days had convinced him it would be fine, just fine to allow him an indulgent peek at her, a tiny sniff. Now he sees how wrong that was. Yet, he can’t force himself to go, to leave. He wants to ensure she’s alright; he needs to know that she is. Until he sees that with his own eyes tomorrow, there’s nothing that can drag him away.
Still, he struggles to sleep. Staring up at the ceiling. Outside wispy clouds pass across the face of the moon, casting changing silvery shadows into the room. He watches them with heavy eyes, visions of the Omega, the heat of the Omega, the scent of the Omega, preventing him from sleep.
Chapter Five
She wakes to the smell of bacon cooking, her stomach growling in appreciation. She rolls over and immediately a searing pain in her head greets her. She lifts her hands to her temple and groans, pulling the duvet up over her face and blocking out the daylight, streaming through the gap in the curtains.
“Amy, breakfast will be ready in five.”
It is a deep masculine voice. One she’d recognise anywhere. But she can’t quite believe it is here.
She peeks out from beneath the duvet to see him standing in her doorway. He is so big he fills it completely.
“What?” Her throat and mouth are parched and the word comes out croaky.
“I’m cooking you some breakfast,” he repeats. “You should eat something — it will help you feel better.”
“Where’s Finn?” she says, desperately racking her brain to remember what happened last night and why Jack Johnson is in her house, in the doorway to her bedroom. But her head hurts so much she can’t focus on anything apart from that smell of bacon.
“He left for work already,” he says, turning and walking away.
That doesn’t explain why he’s here.
She peels back the duvet and struggles to sit, swinging her feet towards the ground. She is dressed in the jeans and top she was wearing last night and she can feel sticky makeup on her face. She runs her hands through her hair, but the memories of last night are hazy. She remembers the club after work. She remembers a lot of drinks. She remembers climbing into a taxi. She doesn’t remember anything else.
Cursing, she stumbles to her feet and struggles to the bathroom. There’s no way she’s having breakfast with Jack Johnson in this state.
The hot water of the shower washes away the smell of the club and the alcohol and she scrubs away the layer of foundation from her face and the mascara that’s ringed her eyes black. There had been another aroma on her skin too, though. His scent. Rich and powerful. And she wonders how the hell it got there.
Back in her room, she rubs herself dry with a towel, squeezing the water from her hair, straining her ears to hear what he’s doing downstairs, trying to ignore the fluttering in her chest.
“It is getting cold,” Jack calls up the stairs.
“I’m coming,” she shouts back. No time to dry her hair or put some make-up on so she runs a comb through her wet hair, and yanks a dress over her head, trying to walk calmly down the stairs and not rush. She’s not that needy, she reminds herself, not that little girl anymore. Jack doesn’t have the power over her he once did. Although, she’s not sure that’s strictly true. As she walks through the kitchen door and spies him already seated at the table, halfway through a plate of scrambled eggs on toast, she thinks maybe the spell he has over her is as potent as it ever was. Maybe stronger. The sight of him, broad and masculine, the cotton of his shirt stretched over his muscular frame, his jaw and his cheek bones striking against his pale blue eyes, drags her into the room before she’s even told her legs to move.
There’s a plate waiting for her. Cautiously, she takes a seat opposite him.
“Thank you,” she says, confused. Two weeks ago, he’d pretty much thrown her out of his house and couldn’t stand to be anywhere near her. She’s had the distant impression he’s been avoiding her ever since. It’s the first time he’s been around to their house, and once upon a time he was here every day. And yet now he’s here cooking for her. What happened last night? She decides she’d better find out. “I was pretty drunk last night.”
