Page 47 of Pack Me Up
His lips are soft, but there’s a hunger in him that’s pure alpha. He tastes like the tea he just drank, sweet and a little bitter, and I want more. I let him press me back against the piano, hands on my hips, mouth devouring mine with a restless, wild energy.
He kisses down my jaw, across my throat, teeth scraping the thin skin there. I shiver, and he grins against my neck, clearly pleased.
“Fuck, you’re hot,” he whispers, and it’s not a line. It’s awe. “You’re everything I ever dreamed of in an omega.”
I clutch at his shirt, dragging him closer, and he lifts me onto the edge of the piano, hands splayed on my thighs. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, fingers threading through the riot of curls at his nape, and he groans, low and desperate.
He kisses me again, slower this time, tongue teasing, teeth nipping at my lower lip. I bite back, just to see what he’ll do, and he laughs, a real sound, delighted and unguarded.
He pulls back, breathing hard, and stares at me with a look so raw it makes me ache.
“You want to stop?” he asks, voice rough.
“No,” I say.
He grins, wickedly, leaning in for more when a voice comes from the top of the stairs.
“Dinner is ready!” Fox shouts.
“It’s my time with Brittney!” Hunter complains back, but still steps back, hands lingering on my waist.
“Then you two can hang out again after dinner because right now our omega needs feeding,” Saint demands.
I roll my eyes. “He’s so bossy.”
He nods, solemn. “Saint delivers orders. You can bend the rules, but you can’t break them. Looks like I’ll have to snag you again after dinner.”
He leans in for one last kiss, gentle, then backs away, arms spread wide in mock surrender.
“I’ll be back,” he promises, and I know he means it.
I climb off the piano, fingers brushing my lips, and laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because I’m happy.
We both race up the stairs. Hunter makes me feel like a child again, and I want to indulge.
There’s a seat waiting for me at the table.
Hunter follows me to the kitchen. It’s weird, walking with someone who keeps pace so perfectly like he’s used to matching the rhythm of others, to filling in the silences without crowding them. He moves with the easy swagger of someone who knows exactly where they’re meant to be.
The kitchen is a cathedral of sunlight and matte black appliances. The table in the center is massive, the wood scarred and beautiful. It’s set, perfectly, with six places. Candles flicker in short glass holders, unnecessary yet beautiful. Steam curls from serving dishes full of bread rolls, a heavy lasagna, a salad so green it looks fake, and some kind of roasted root medley. There’s even a carafe of red wine.
Saint is at the head of the table, reading his phone. Fox is plating food, his dark red hair glistening and his hands moving with the efficiency of someone who’s either a pro or has something to prove. Colton and Cody aren’t here yet, but their scents hang in the air, twinned and electric.
Saint looks up the moment I enter. His gaze sweeps over me, cataloging every detail, not in a predatory way, but like he’s filing it for future use. He sets the phone down, and I feel the weight of his attention settle on me.
“Good. You’re here. I half expected Hunter to keep you down there. I was about to send the twins after you,” he says. “Sit.”
I sit. Hunter flanks me on the right, sliding into his chair with a lazy elegance. Fox brings over a basket of bread and sets it directly in front of me, then pulls out the chair on my left and sits, not quite making eye contact, but close.
Saint pours wine. For a second, I think he’ll skip me, like my father always did, but he pours a glass and sets it in front of me, his fingers brushing mine on the stem. My breath hitches. I don’t think he meant it, but the look he gives me after suggests otherwise.
“Colton, Cody!” Saint calls, not raising his voice, but it vibrates through the house anyway. Two seconds later, the twins emerge. They slide into their seats. Colton is opposite me, and Cody is next to him.
“How was practice?” Cody asks.
“You and Tommy sounded good,” Colton adds. “We might have cracked the door so we could listen.”
Saint ignores them, raising his glass. “We’re all here. That’s rare. Welcome, Brittney.” He holds the toast for a beat, looking at each of us in turn. “To new beginnings.”
