Page 7 of The Omega Verse

Damn, he tastes good.

“Jesus,” his eyes dilate as he steps closer and more of his delicious scent washes over me. His finger travels down to the dimple in my chin, circling it gently before his entire hand covers my jaw. He’s not squeezing me, but there’s still a hint of possession in his grip as he studies my face. “Shit, sugar. I really don’t want to leave you, but I’m out of time.”

“I’ll wait right here,” I mumble, and he finally lets me go.

But before he’s taken a step, he shoves the palm of his hand against the thick erection tenting his zip. “A boner on my big day.” He pulls a rueful face. “Think anyone will notice?”

I snort, because unless he’s stacking boxes in the basement, his new colleagues are about to get an eyeful.

A huge yawn tugs at my jaw and I give him a sleepy smile as I snuggle into my mohair and leather nest. “Thanks for rescuing me, Green Eyes.”

“It’s silver,” he shoots back over his shoulder as he pulls the door open. He lingers a moment longer, still watching me with that possessive need swirling in his eyes…and then he’s swallowed up in the roar of hungry Sundowner fans.

Cass

Silver eyes?

I’m still puzzling it over as I slip out of a delicious dream. I’m in a touch temple, and a soft, warm mouth is nuzzling my forehead like he wants to lick up all my dirty thoughts.

And they’re borderline filthy, because there’s a pulse in my body that’s all warm, molten heat. I snuggle down into it, feeling a pair of strong arms flex around me. But I’m mostly distracted by the way my mohair and leather nest smells. It should reek of wet dog, given I’m still wearing my sodden jeans, but it’s like being wrapped in a dark chocolate cloud. It feels safe and warm, and I nuzzle into it with a purr.

“Silva said there was something special waiting in here, but I didn’t think it was going to be a wet little kitten.”

The purr stutters to a stop, and I peel my eyes open.

Holy shit.

Dark hair that tumbles over an undercut, with sweeping sideburns to frame his pale face. Eyes just a touch warmer than arctic blue and surrounded by thick, spiky lashes. A sharp jaw with rockstar stubble, and lips still red from the stage makeup. He’s like some gender-swapped Snow White, except the look he’s giving me is all huntsman.

Not prey, I remind myself as I brace shaky arms on the chair back and try to slide off his lap. But that hand on my arse digs in, holding me still. And I have to accept that somehow, I’ve woken up on the lap of Jett Colter, lead singer of The Sundowners, and my dead brother’s best friend.

The blanket is still tucked around me, but I’m plastered to his chest and I can definitely feel a hand on my arse. For a heart-clenching moment, I wonder if I crawled here in my sleep. Like a needy little stray looking for a cuddle.

Except…even if I was completely out of it, would I really choose this guy’s lap to curl up in? Because as gorgeous as he is, he’s wipe-out drunk.

The fumes coming off him are enough to pickle my liver, but it’s the sour edge to his scent that holds me in place. This guy is hurting in the worst way.

Not that he’s going to admit it, rolling his hips up under me as he clutches my waist. “You here to ride me, baby? Cos those tight jeans are gonna be a problem.” He plucks at the damp fabric, then looks up at me through his lashes. “Ah, hell. Don’t give me those wounded eyes, kitten.”

I don’t know if I look wounded or appalled. The only thought that makes any sense is I need to get out of here fast. “You’ve got the wrong idea, Mr Colter…”

He gives one of those drunk snort-laughs, and grinds up into me some more. “That’s very polite of you, baby, but it’s not your manners I want to fuck.”

Seriously? What kind of groupie vibes am I giving off right now?

But before I can pry his hands off me, the door opens and two men step inside. The first one’s in a suit with salt-and-pepper hair, a deep tan, and a pinched mouth, like he’s been sucking on a lemon. He takes one look at us and sighs hard enough for his wire-framed-glasses to ride up his nose.

But I’m too busy ogling the guy behind him. He’s wearing a long-sleeve black shirt over black leather pants, and his eyes are a haunting grey. With his shaved scalp and sharp cheekbones, they swamp his face, but there’s no denying it’s River Ryder, the band’s omega keyboardist.

And just as hard as I’m staring at him, he’s staring back.

“What’s she doing here?” The guy in the suit peers at me, his lemon lips pulled into a pucker. “And what the hell happened to her face?”

“This is Silva’s little kitten. He found her in a puddle.”

I shoot Jett a dirty look, but he just sticks his tongue between his teeth and grins at me. Unfortunately, he’s the kind of guy who looks good even when he’s being a drunken dick.

“I don’t care where he found her, she needs to go. Celine is here, and she’s on the warpath.” Hoover clicks his fingers at me and points to a side door. “Scram, sweetpea.”

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