Page 25 of Impregnated By the Alpha

Moira, the confident, bold Moira she was tonight, wanted to say yes. Wanted to proclaim that she fearlessly chased her own inner peace and that the thoughts of others did not concern her. But the words wouldn’t come.

“It’s what I want to do,” she replied.

“What stops you?” He leaned toward her, intent.

Looking up at the sky, away from his keen interest that she couldn’t trust, Moira was able to answer. “Vera, sometimes. Myself, at other times. Life gets in the way, too.”

He nodded and seemed to consider that. “And what is it that you want to do? What’s your big dream?”

She searched his eyes for a hint of duplicity. Was he asking so he could use it against her, like the old Jonah would have? Or did he genuinely want to know?

“I just want to own that bakery and turn it into something amazing. I want to make the best wedding cakes, the kind that people come from hours away to buy.” It came out of her in a rush, a tumult of words that she couldn’t snatch back. “I know it’s lame. It’s not saving lives or—“

“It's not lame,” Jonah said, firmly. “It sounds wonderful. You’re an artist.”

Moira gave a bitter laugh. “It’s just baking.”

His hand brushed against hers on the moss. She didn’t pull away, her heartbeat quickening. They’d moved closer as they’d talked, leaning toward each other, faces just inches apart as they spoke their quiet words.

“It’s your dream, Moira. And you should never be ashamed of it.” His breath was warm on her cheek.

She couldn’t stop staring at his lips, couldn’t stop herself from leaning in even closer. His breath hitched, and she knew, somewhere instinctual and deep, that he was nervous. That she, Moira, was making Jonah nervous. It sent a thrill of power through her, made her bold.

Her lips darted against his, soft, searching. She wasn’t expecting how she’d feel when they connected, how her body would come to life all at once, and how she’d hunger for more when he parted his lips. Moira let go of the fears holding her back and let her body lead the way.

It would have been satisfying in some way if Jonah had been an awful kisser, just like it would have pleased her to see that he’d gotten ugly as he’d aged. But in both cases, she did not get her way. He was gentle, tender, and teasing, and his hand slid up her back to cradle her neck, his fingers in her hair.

Laughter rang out across the green. Moira pulled back from Jonah, heart racing. A crowd of people came spilling out of a house, drunk and happy, engrossed with themselves, not mocking her. She felt warmth creep along her cheeks and was grateful for the low light, hiding her embarrassment.

“They can’t see us from here,” Jonah said, quietly, but he slipped his hand from her neck.

She wondered if he was grateful for the cover of night as well, grateful that no one could see him kissing her. Shame crept in, sinking into all of the places that had been thrumming a moment ago. It twisted into something ugly. Moira scrambled to her feet, brushing leaves from her dress.

“I need to go.” Moira stammered. “Home. I need to go home now.”

Jonah stood. He was taller than her by a few inches, enough that she had to look up to see his face. It was hard to read. The openness in it while they talked had vanished.

“Let me walk you home, please? I’ll abide by our earlier agreement not to talk,” he promised, flashing a crooked smile.

Moira sighed. Against her better judgment, she nodded. “Fine. But I expect perfect silence.”

He mimed, zipping his lips and tossing the key over his shoulder. She rolled her eyes in response, fighting a smile. There was none of the false bravado that had rolled off of him in waves a teenager, the sort that would have cringed at the idea of such a gesture. It was refreshing.

They walked side by side, hands bumping occasionally. She tried to ignore the tiny buzz it gave her each time they made contact, tried not to read into him, not moving away to avoid it.

“This is me,” she said, indicating her apartment. She could see Loaf’s silhouette in the window, sitting up on the cushion, watching for her return.

He looked up and smiled but said nothing. Moira rolled her eyes again and pushed his shoulder.

“You can talk now,” she said.

Jonah took a fake, gasping breath as if he were coming up for air after a swim. “Thanks for letting me walk you home, Moira. And thank you for listening to me and sharing your dream.”

They stood on the doorstep, facing each other. It was small enough, its rusted railing close, that there was not much space between them.

“Right,” she said, trying to tear herself away from his eyes. “Right. I should go up. Goodnight, Jonah.”

“Goodnight, Moira.”

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