Page 15 of Knot So Lucky
When she forgets to maintain the careful vocal control that keeps her in the lower register expected of male Alphas.
When she's justAurorainstead of "Rory Lane" the persona.
I try not to think about the fact that the only other time I get to hear her real voice is when I'm seven inches deep inside her, forcing her to whimper and scream my name while her suppressants fail completely under the onslaught of Alpha pheromones, Omega biology, and pure, desperateneed.
Try and fail spectacularly, because my body's already responding to the memory.
To the ghost sensation of her clenching around me, the way her nails dig into my shoulders, the absolutely devastating sounds she makes when I?—
Her phone timer goes off with a shrill beep that cuts through my increasingly inappropriate thoughts.
"I'd better go back," she says, already turning toward the garage, "before they think I'm walking off the job."
She takes exactly three steps before her knees buckle.
Fuck!
I catch her before she hits the ground, one arm around her waist and the other supporting her shoulders. Her weight sags against me in a way that triggers every protective instinct I have.
"Che cazzo—" She blinks rapidly, confusion written across her features as she tries to figure out why the world just tilted. "Cosa sta succedendo?—"
Italian.
She always reverts to Italian when she's overwhelmed or caught off guard, the language of her mother's side of the family flowing out in a stream of increasingly creative insults as I lift her completely off her feet.
"Put me down, you absolute walnut of a man?—"
"No."
"Cale—"
"Not happening, princess."
More Italian cursing follows, but she's not actually struggling, which tells me she knows she needs help even if her pride won't let her admit it.
The break room is blessedly empty when I shoulder through the door. I set her down on the table—not gently, because gentleness would imply weakness and she'd probably punch me for it—and she makes an indignant noise as her ass hits the surface.
There's a box of donuts on the counter, probably brought in by one of the morning shift crew. I grab the nearest one—chocolate frosted, a favorite of hers—and shove it toward her mouth.
"Eat."
She glares at me but takes a bite when I refuse to back down, chewing with exaggerated annoyance while maintaining eye contact like this is some kind of dominance challenge.
Fine.
I can out-stubborn her any day of the week.
I grab a fresh water bottle from the mini fridge, crack it open, and set it within reach. She takes the donut from my hand, probably to preserve what's left of her dignity, and continueseating with that same resentful expression that makes me want to kiss her again just to wipe it off her face.
I wait until she's downed half the water bottle before speaking.
"Get your ass back to doing your job you love so much," I tell her, letting my voice drop into that commanding register that makes her spine straighten instinctively. "But I'm going to bring food, and you're going to stop and eat it when I arrive. Understand?"
She huffs, wiping chocolate frosting from the corner of her mouth with her thumb.
"Fine."
"Say it."
