Page 6 of The Omega Verse

Oh hell. Did I say that aloud? My brain must be rattled from Killer Boots’ punch. Or am I just obsessing over temples because his nose against my forehead feels as good as Tom’s kiss?

I mean, he has an amazing nose. Long and thin, with a cute bump in the middle.

“Thanks, sugar. Your nose is cute, too. Like a little milk dud.”

I peer up at him, shocked by how bright and pretty his eyes are. That’s not a green you see outside of nature very often. It’s a mid-winter, deep south, lots of manure kind of green.

“Manure?”

Oh, crap.

“Where’s the off button for my mouth?”

He just chuckles again and sticks a denim-clad hip out. “Can you reach into my front pocket and grab my swipe card?”

I blink at him. He expects me to coordinate a body search when I can’t even get my mouth to stop running like a damn tap? But I nod, snaking my hand down between my hip and his belly, trying to ignore the way his shirt has hitched up across his tight abs.

Don’t feel up the hot guy, Cass.

I’m relieved I manage to keep that bit of internal commentary to myself. But then I abandon all attempts at self-talk, because my fingers are wriggling into his tight, wet pocket, his hoodie riding up against the heel of my palm.

Holy shit. Why does this feel so amazing?

Maybe because the key card isn’t the only thing you’ve found.

His hips jerk, and warmth blooms in my belly as I realise I just stroked the side of his rock-hard erection.

“Sorry about that,” he says with a groan. “But my dick’s been on high alert since you started mumbling about touch temples.”

To my surprise, I laugh. Which makes my lip ache and my head throb. That warm feeling doesn’t disappear, but there’s a sour edge to it now. I feel wrung out, and weirdly close to tears. And maybe he can sense it, because he drops a quick kiss on my milk dud nose. “Come on. Let’s get you inside, sugar.”

Somehow, we manage to swipe and nudge our way into a room that is actually green. Not in the same league as my saviour’s eyes, but more of a soothing, minty colour. A sectional sofa takes up most of the floor space along with a coffee table, a fully stocked bar, and a massive wall-mounted TV. It smells like air freshener and carpet shampoo, which I guess is better than how the last rock band probably left it.

“I’m going to call you Mr Green,” I tell him and he pauses halfway to the leather sofa, looking at me curiously. “Because of your eyes,” I explain. “That’s why I was thinking about manure.”

He chuckles as he deposits me on the sofa. There’s a thick black blanket folded over the arm, and even without touching it I can tell it’s mohair. Which makes me smile. I can just picture a sweaty rockstar snuggling under a granny blanket after the show.

“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” he says as he bends to settle me, and a puff of his delicious breath washes over my face. Whoa. Who needs paracetamol when he can magically huff all my aches away? “I’ll see if the guys have something lying around that you can wear… Or merch, maybe? I could get you a Sundowners’ hoodie.”

“I’m okay. Really.” I wiggle on the couch, hoping my wet butt doesn’t screw up the leather. I expected it to reek of old tobacco and naked groupies, but it actually smells like a new car. I reach over and drag the blanket across me, biting back a moan at how soft it feels. “This is good. I feel better already.”

And I do. Yes, there’s twenty thousand people and a world-famous rock band under the same roof as us, but for a minute, it feels like my saviour and I are in our own little cocoon.

But he frowns, hands on lean hips as he studies me. “Look, I have to go join the band, but I’ll try to find Hoover, their manager. He can get a doctor to come by. And you might also want to file a report about Rockstar Barbie…”

His voice is drowned out by a roar from beyond the door that makes us both jump. It sounds like a hurricane is bearing down on us, but I’m pretty sure it’s just the thousands of fans getting worked up. Doesn’t stop me from biting my lip hard, the enormity of where I am suddenly crashing down on me.

“Shit. This is crazy. Maybe it’s a mistake…”

Something in my voice makes my saviour step in closer, a comforting rumble coming from his chest. I tilt my head back, drinking in the concern in his vivid green eyes. The only other person who looks at me like this is Tom. He’s always been there for me, but I’m still trying to work out if that’s just part of his bedside manner. Until that kiss in the bakery kitchen, I would’ve said Tom Bush doesn’t see me in any kind of romantic light at all.

“Then he’s a fool…” I guess that bit must have slipped out, too, because Green Eyes is brushing his fingers through my hair, his fingers pausing as they reach the corner of my mouth. His eyes darken, and for a moment I think he’s going to keep touching me, but then he stuffs his hand back in his pocket. “You want to leave, I can get a car to take home…”

But I’m already shaking my head. “I want to stay; I’m just nervous. I don’t know if I’m ready for all this.”

Something flashes in his eyes, and if he didn’t smell like a beta, I’d swear he has a few alpha genes tucked away somewhere. “It’s okay. I’ll look after you.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I don’t need looking after, but I catch the words between my teeth. I’m literally biting the end of my tongue when he reaches out and swipes a finger over the tip. I’m not usually a fan of random people touching me – especially so intimately - but I lick the musky flavour from his skin before I stop to think about it.

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