Page 12 of Reckless: Collision

“Fuck.” I curse to myself and rest my forehead against the cool glass. I know my weaknesses, and one of those is getting too caught up in the moment to remember that my actions have consequences. That other people have to deal with the fallout of my brilliant ideas.

A toilet flushes.

Of course I’m not alone. Because the universe has a sick sense of humor and apparently decided I haven’t been humbled enough today.

I splash water on my face as the stall door creaks open.

I hear him first. The swagger in his walk—it’s in the way his feet shuffle along the floor with predatory grace. Then the sink turns on beside me.

Water drips from my face as I blink in the mirror, my own green eyes glaring accusations back at me.

I take a chance and peek at the guy beside me as I inhale slowly. Warmth floods my senses—cherry tobacco and worn leather, with something wild underneath like gunpowder or a recent fight. The scent curls around my throat and settles in my lungs, bringing memories of campfire stories and dangerous men. It’s muted at the edges, my beta senses catching only fragments of what an omega would drown in.

In an alpha bathroom.

Which makes him an?—

“You’re staring.” His voice is a deep rumble, almost a growl that rolls through me, causing my nipples to bead and press against my bra. There’s something unhinged in his tone, like he’s barely keeping something wild contained.

Well, since I’m already in trouble... I lick my lips, shut off the sink, and grab a paper towel. Leaning against the counter, I wipemy hands, still staring at the alpha dressed in leather pants, a tight white shirt covered in stains, and a leather jacket.

He is my perfect wet dream walking.

“I like to look at fuckable men.” I toss my paper towel in the trash. Honestly surprised with myself that I sink it right in the garbage.

Tilting his head to the side, his lips kick up in a smirk that’s all bad boy challenge. Tattoos lick at the side of his neck, and dark hair sweeps across his forehead in a way that should be illegal in at least three states.

Biting his lip, he turns to me. “I like to look at fuckable women.” His eyes roll over me, head to toe and back again, like he’s cataloging every inch for future reference.

A reckless part of me—the one I always have to keep reined in—perks her head up.

I could use a distraction. A really bad decision to cap off my night of spectacular bad decisions.

“Tell me something,” I use the voice no man has ever been able to say no to, that gritty smokey voice that sounds like sex personified. “Is all this,” I wave my hand up and down his outfit, “just for show?”

“You’re purposely trying to manipulate me.” His voice reverberates through my chest, bass notes that make my sternum vibrate. He steps closer, the air around us growing denser, harder to breathe. The temperature rises three degrees from his presence alone.

He towers over me, shoulders blocking the light, muscles shifting under his shirt like something barely contained. Built like an Olympic swimmer who fights in underground rings on weekends. Exactly what I need to get my mind off my major fuck up. No name, no strings, no complications.

Just pure, physical distraction.

“Of course I am,” I scoff. “I want you to rail me in this bathroom, and this small talk is only wasting my time.”

He belly laughs—an absolute belly laugh that edges into something darker, more feral. It’s the kind of laugh that should make me run, not lean closer. “Oh sweetheart,” he purrs, but it comes out like a growl, “you really should be more careful what you ask for. Some of us aren’t quite... stable.” The way he says it makes my skin prickle with equal parts fear and arousal.

“Still trying to make small talk.” I tease him.

“A beta in an alpha bathroom asking to get fucked.” He runs a thumb along his bottom lip in contemplation, but his pupils dilate, and he takes another step toward me.

Hook. Line. And sinker.

“What’ll it be,alpha?” Okay, that last word was the hook.

He moves with alpha speed that makes the air displacement hit me before his actual touch does—a pressure wave of intention that triggers an instantaneous beta response. My pupils dilate so quickly my vision blurs at the edges, a rush of wetness flooding between my legs before his fingers even find my hair. When they do, he applies just enough pressure against my scalp to send electric currents racing down my spine, that exquisite threshold where pain transforms directly into pleasure without ever crossing the line.

“You have no idea what kind of monster you’re playing with, little beta,” he growls, voice carrying that edge of instability that should send her running. “I break pretty things like you.”

He shoves me against the sink, his other hand finding my throat with practiced ease. The contrast between the cold porcelain at my back and his burning touch makes me shiver.

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