Page 72 of In Knots

“Lean back,” he tells me. I rest my shoulders against the wall. “And open your legs a little.” I do as he says.

He stares at me, and raises the camera, then halts. “Shit, I can’t take this. You look like you just got fucked. It’s dirty as hell.”

I peer down at my body, at my stiff nipples clear through the cotton, at how the shirt barely skims my thighs.

“I want you to take it,” I tell him.

“What will you do with it?” he asks, the camera hovering near his face.

I just stare at him, and he lifts the camera and takes one then two then three shots. I grab at the hem of the t-shirt and pull it down, peering at him this time from under my eyelashes. Remembering again what Bear told me. Own it. Embrace it.

“Fuck!” he mutters. “Buzz will cut off my balls if he catches me taking pictures of his girl like this.”

“I’m not just his girl now, though, am I?” I say.

He lowers the camera and peers across at me. I watch as a faint blush passes over his face. Arousal? Shame? I think we are alike, Cam and me.

I close my eyes. What is wrong with me? I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want any of this. One man, one alpha, a prim and proper life, isn’t that what I should want?

As if reading my thoughts, he asks, “What do you want, Omega?”

“I want you to take your shirt off so I can take another photo of you.” I open my eyelids and meet his gaze, so hot, I think I might combust into flames.

He reaches over his head with one arm and tugs his shirt straight over his head. He has the same tattoo inked across his strong body, art I’m beginning to love. I step closer, taking the camera from him and touching his chest with my fingertip. He shudders against my touch and lets out a rush of air through his teeth.

“We always talked about it. The possibility of having a pack omega. Of sharing a girl. But, Alexa–”

“Don’t try and talk me out of it,” I say, tracing the thick black lines over his ribs and down to the tightly packed muscles of his ads. “Everyone is always telling me what to think, what to say, what to wear,” I shake my head as I speak, “who to be. Let me make a decision for myself.”

“Whatever you want,” he whispers. His scent is like sweet caramel and his skin is warm.

I lift the camera to my eye and take a picture of him, of the contours of his body, of the lines of his art.

Then, slowly, I lower the camera and meet his eye, holding his gaze as I reach for the neck of my t-shirt and pull it over my head. I can’t do it like him though and soon I’m lost in the cotton, giggling as I scrabble my way out. Then his hands are there, yanking the thing straight over my head.

His eyes roam over my body, examining the curves of my breasts, the slope of my waist, the fine line of hair between my legs.

“I’m going to need to take another photo, OK?”

“Yes,” I gasp, my voice hardly audible.

“Come on then.” He holds out his hand and I go to pass him the camera, but he shakes his head, taking my hand instead and leading me through to his room.

I hold my breath as we enter, my pulse racing in my throat, my gland quivering at the back of my neck.

“Will you lie on the bed? On my bed?”

I kneel up on the bed, hearing his heavy pant behind me and then I twist around.

“How do you want me?”

He stifles a groan.

“Lie down flat with your arms above your head.”

“LikeAmerican Beauty.” I smile at him.

“You’re a million times more beautiful than her, Omega.”

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