Page 62 of Rut Bar

“I guess you’re gonna keep getting hurt then. I didn’t take you for a masochist,” I say.

Anthony’s lips twist in a lopsided grin. His grip tightens, and he tugs me forward. Not that there’s anywhere to go. His chin wedges between my breasts and he tips his head back to keep eye contact. “For you, baby, I don’t mind it. You’re worth all the pain in the world. Now give Daddy his medicine.”

I cup his face in my hands and tilt his head back more, then curl down so I can press a tender kiss to his lips. Despite the chaste contact of our mouths, it’s deep, and it leaves me breathless when I pull away.

“Fine. It’s clear that I can’t talk either of you into your senses, but I’m serious, Anthony. I make my life choices no matter what we do when we play.” I run a nail down his throat and chest and tap him directly over his heart where the crucifix on his tattooed rosary is inked. “And you two are going to be in charge of making sure I get my pills. If you fuck with my birth control, you willnotlike the consequences. Lapsed Catholic or not. Understand?”

“Of course, baby. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get your pills. But the minute you tell me you want a baby, I’m gonna bend you over and put one in you.”

My pussy clenches at the threat. One that’s more of a promise, and I have to remind my traitorous body that we do not want a baby right now. I swear, the heat makes my ovaries practically cry with mourning at the thought they won’t get their way this cycle.Stupid omega breeding fetish.

“Fine.”

“Yeah?” Anthony asks, his eyes lighting up.

And then it hits me what I distractedly agreed to, and I blush as I pull out of his grip and use the first aid kit as an excuse to ignore him. I put the unused supplies inside and organize it so it’ll close, then latch it shut. “Don’t get cocky,” I warn him. “I’m not saying yes to anything like that. It’ll be years before I can think about having a family.”

My suppressed instincts try to rise to the surface. I scrub a hand over my face.God, what’s wrong with me?It’s the heat. It always messes with my head. Makes me irrational. Makes me want things I can’t have. “And heat talk doesn’t count as consent. I’m telling you right now while I’m rational, and I expect you to respect that or this will be over.”

“I know, baby. Don’t worry. Daddy will take care of you.” Anthony smiles, but it’s not as reassuring as he probably intends. It’ll have to do.

“All done?” Jamie asks, pointing to the first aid kit.

“Yes, thanks.” I slide it over to him so he can put it away. I’ve made myself as clear as I can get.

“Do you want a tour?” Jamie asks. “So you know where things are?”

I’m not sure I’ll be seeing much of anything but the bedroom, but I’m still curious. “I would love one.”

Jamie tells me all about the house as he leads me through it. It’s an old Craftsman beach bungalow that his grandfather ordered from a catalog and built from a kit he pulled off the train. Warm, honey colored wood beams frame the ceiling and the entire house has been painted in soft creams and white.

His furniture is large and sturdy, the kind built especially for alphas who are often bigger and heavier and need the extra support, but lived-in. Framed family photos of a bunch of freckled, towheaded kids cover the walls. The pictures range from vintage to modern, and I wonder if any of these are nieces and nephews. He mentioned siblings. One or more of them might have kids. Do they come here for vacation? Family beach trips to fun uncle Jamie’s house?

The furniture is used and comfortable, but the polished floors gleam. There’s sand embedded in the rug by the porch and front door and an enormous surfboard leans against a corner. It’s too dark outside to see the ocean, but his view of the beach must be magnificent. It makes me wonder again what he’s doing working at Rut.

Jamie shows me the kitchen and tells me where the various things like cups and silverware are, but I’m barely listening. My brain is too busy trying to put together this puzzle.

What can I offer them? That nasty inner voice that tells me I’m only wanted because I’m an omega or they want the bar. I’ve made Rut into a success against all odds, but I don’t want either to be true. I can’t believe that Jamie would be capable of that sort of duplicity, and he’s the opposite of an alphahole. Anthony, though…

Anthony could absolutely be capable of that sort of duplicity, but my intuition tells me that isn’t it. Maybe he really does just want to get laid. I’ve denied him for years, and now he’s worn me down. For some guys who view themselves as players, especially insecure betas, it’s all about the chase and conquest. Getting an omega pheromone-hooked can become a game.

But we’ve already fucked. If all he wanted was to spice up their love life with threesomes, then he’s gotten what he wanted. He wouldn’t still be asking for more. Maybe all he wants is to live out his heat fantasies. Betas don’t understand how bad a heat gets until they have to service a needy omega through one. The reality doesn’t always live up to the porn-fueled fantasy.

Jamie stops talking about his carpenter grandfather and the knife knicks in the kitchen doorway that tracked his and his brother’s heights as they grew, and their father’s before them. He purrs, and I realize that my pheromones must be tinged with stress. He must be smelling it. I take a deep breath to try to get my roiling insecurities under control.

His purring helps. Not that I’d ever admit it out loud.

“Did I do something wrong?” Jamie asks, his voice hesitant and his expression worried.

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m…”Nervous.

Anthony comes up behind me in the kitchen and the crack of his hand on my ass makes me jump and yelp. “Your nest is ready. Come check it out, baby.”

I rub the sting out of my butt while my belly flutters with nerves. They made me a nest?

Jamie blushes and ducks his head, then gives me a small smile before he scoots past us and leads the way to the bedroom. The wooden four-poster bed has been piled high with blankets and pillows in various shades of white, cream, and warm taupe. My soft teal blanket and matching pillow take up the center, and my empty duffel bag has been folded and laid on a chair.

Sheer mosquito netting covers the poles and drapes around the bedposts in generous folds. The entire effect is so dreamy and romantic. It’s a far cry from the small, sad nest I make in my room whenever the urge can’t be ignored.

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