Page 63 of Pack Rivals: Part Two
“Enjoyed that too much,” he mumbles, still frowning, his eyes gliding down my body, my gown open like an invitation.
I feel all blissful and yet, deep in my cunt there’s that ache, the one that drove me half mad throughout my heat, an ache that needs to be filled.
I’m not sure I’m ready for that though. Does that make me selfish? He just took me to heaven and back. But he makes no move to initiate that, even though I can see him straining at the front of his pants.
“Isn’t that good … that you enjoyed it?” I say. Maybe he doesn’t want to sleep with me because I look a state. Dried cake stuck to my tear-stained face, my skin all flushed and hot and my hair stuck to my damp brow.
“No,” he says. “It was meant to be a gift. It was meant to show you how sorry I am. I wasn’t meant to enjoy it. Only you were.”
He frowns harder, then before I can argue with him, he’s stomping towards the door.
“Nate, your knife,” I call after him.
He hesitates by the door, fingers resting on the handle. “It’s yours, little bird. Just like my fucking heart.”
He stomps out of the house and into the night, the door banging shut behind him.
I collapse onto the counter.
What the hell just happened?
I was stupid that’s what. Stupid and far too horny.
And though that was possibly – actually easily – the best orgasm of my life; that isn’t a good thing.
No more assholes. Even if they have a pair of heart-stopping eyes, a wicked tongue and a talent for cooking.
I groan. I am screwed and there is only one thing for it.
I’m going to have to go back to Naw Creek.
15
Nate
I stumbleout of the omega’s house, out onto the beach and towards the sounds of crashing waves. My legs are like fucking jello, my heart cracking into pieces in my chest.
My little bird isn’t just some little songbird, not some little garden thing. No, my little bird is a fucking phoenix. Every time she’s knocked back down, she glides right back into the sky. Bright. Burning. Flaming hot.
So hot I can barely look at her. Can barely touch her.
The water comes into view, black and unmoving.
I sprint to the edge, where it laps at the sand, and fall to my knees. Then I’m scrubbing at my face, the salt stinging my eyes, the water icy cold.
I wash away the fucking cake and the taste of the omega. I don’t deserve to taste her. I don’t deserve the memory lodged in my head – my little phoenix writhing on the end of my tongue.
Shit. So hot. So fucking intensely hot.
Like fire itself.
I scrub at my face until everything stings, not only my eyes. Then I fall backwards and stare up at that moon.
Serene. Peaceful.
Eerily calm in the face of all the chaos crashing through me.
I could head for Smyth’s bar, drink myself into oblivion. Or drive to Jem’s Strip Joint, stuff a few hundreds into some girl’s thong and let her grind in my lap. Or I could go down to the old gym on Lincoln’s, smash my fist into a few faces.
