Page 26 of Knot for Me
Friends can crack jokes, eat snacks, and drink together.
There’s nothing dangerous about that. Nothing at all.
ChapterEight
REAGAN
Marco is hilarious, and by the time we’ve finished our snack, I’ve laughed so much my side hurts. Cory is busy working on dinner and humming along with the music playing on his phone. I clean up the dishes we dirtied, trying to make good on the whole maid bit, before Marco and I go to the wine cellar. Lucas is nowhere in sight and that’s fine by me. After the guys stormed in and kicked Amelie and Jefferson out, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be around any of them.
Why had they asked the other pack members to stay away anyway? I don’t like being the reason for things changing. It would be better if pack life carried on as it normally would, but then again, I’d probably get tired of insisting I wasn’t their omega every time my pheromones flared and told the whole world what my body wanted.
The cellar isn’t as creepy as it sounds. The overhead lights work—no spooky flickering, thank fuck. The walls and floors are finished, complete with paint and tile, and wine shelves line the room. There are cute little chalkboard signs and someone has written in green chalk what type of wine is in each section. The diamond shaped cubbies are filled with bottles. These alphas have enough wine to inebriate the entire world.
“Wow,” I say, grabbing the neck of a white wine and pulling it out to read the label.
Bullet Winery.
Guess this is one way the pack makes money.
“Do you have a favorite?”
“I love Malbec,” I tell Marco. “Any dry red is good though.”
He nods. “I’m impressed. Most women usually like sweet wine.”
“That’s an obnoxious generalization. How many women do you know?”
Surprised, he stops mid-reach for a wine and glances at me. “I’ve never counted.”
I snort. “Well, I can guarantee plenty of women like it full bodied.”
“Do they now?” he asks, an amused look crossing his face.
“Yeah, I love deep flavors and that burst of bitterness when it hits the back of my throat.”
He chokes, and I finally understand the look.
“What are you, fifteen? I’m not talking about cum.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his head and moving away from me. “Don’t say cum.”
“Cumon,” I say.
“Stop,” he glares at me, but there’s a smile at the edges of his lips.
“But I love talking about cum. Seriously. Coming is my favorite. And the taste of it,” I do a chef’s kiss for added effect, “the best.” I waggle my eyebrows, expecting him to laugh. He doesn’t.
His hands are braced on the shelf in front of him, his head dropped between his shoulders.
“Whoa. Hey, you okay?” I step closer, but he stumbles away from me like I have some contagious disease.
“Don’t.”
Then his scent crashes into me. Pure, unadulterated lust. Desire so tempting yet so dangerous my thighs press together at the same time my eyes widen. I take a step back. He braces one hand on the shelf and adjusts his cock with the other, groaning in frustration when my gaze snaps down to his crotch. My core clenches at the sight of the bulge in his pants, and my own arousal sweeps through the air.
“You should leave,” he says, voice strained.
“Right. Sorry, that was dumb.” I frown and bite my lip.
