Page 8 of Wild Card

She’s an unbonded omega.

Where the hell is her security?

“You’re so damn lucky I’m not your alpha,” I mutter. “Your backside would never recover from the trip you’d take over my knee.”

“Yeah, how dare I try to have fun for the first time in months?” She scoffs. “Sorry, Daddy. I didn’t know I was grounded.”

We make it to the hallway with my office, and I stop dead in my tracks.

“I’d be very careful who you bait, little one.” My eyes meet her huge hazel orbs, and she blinks rapidly as her chest rises and falls. “We’re short-staffed, but all I did tonight was watch you to make sure you didn’t get yourself into trouble.”

“That sounds sweeter than I think you meant it to.” She stares up at me from under her lashes as her teeth dig into her lower lip, and it takes everything in me not to tug it free for her.

“Come on,” I grunt, pulling her along by my hold on her hip. “You need to sleep off the alcohol.”

“Okay,” she agrees.

This woman is a disaster.

She grunts as I drop my big-ass coat over her small frame. “It’s heavy.”

Okay, she’s technically not tiny for a woman, but everyone is little compared to me.

“I’ll bet it is for you,” I agree, pulling her hair into a bunch and tucking it into the hood.

“Is that really necessary?” Her freckle-covered nose wrinkles.

My nostrils flare as I get the first hit of her scent. There were so many bodies in the club that it wasn’t easy to pick up, but with just the two of us in my office, it’s unmistakable.

She’s a scent match.

My mouth waters with the urge to taste it by licking her skin.

Rush was right.

It’s like creamy orange vanilla and, unlike most omega scents, it’s not cloying or overpowering.

It’s potent, but light and understated.

“Oh,” she whispers, swaying toward me. Her face hits my T-shirt and rolls around my pec. “Cedar and lemongrass…” Her nose wiggles deeper—if that’s even possible. “It’s nice. I mean, you smell handsome.”

I clear my throat, awkwardly patting the top of her head. “Thank you. Your scent is appealing to my senses too.”

“Are we going home now?” she asks, tugging on the sides of my T-shirt.

I frown down at her and finally get the hint. My hands wrap around her ass, and I lift her.

The dress she’s wearing rides up her thighs, practically disappearing under my jacket. To be fair, it wasn’t all that long to begin with.

She stretches up, using her hands on my shoulders to move higher until she can bury her face in my neck.

I blink at the side of her head, frozen and unsure what to do next.

I’m not Rush.

Women don’t throw themselves at me or make any indication they want me to flirt with them.

My size makes me an oddity most women want no part of, and I’ve come to terms with that over the years.

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