Page 35 of Craving Their Omega

I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t think you’re going to blow it. I think you’re going to do just fine.”

I move in closer, holding her gaze. She doesn’t back away, doesn’t do anything to stop me, so I reach out and set two fingers under her chin, tipping her face up to meet mine.

Slowly, giving her time to move away or say no if she wants to, I lean down and kiss her. It’s softer than the kisses we shared today at the wedding and then the reception, but it’s better in almost every way. Her lips are so full and plush, like velvet beneath mine as our mouths brush together.

Penelope inhales in surprise, then presses up, returning the kiss briefly before we separate.

“What was that for?” she asks, her fingers coming up to touch her lips. “There’s no one watching right now.”

“I know,” I reply with a shrug. “That one wasn’t for an audience. That one was just for me.”

Chapter 13

Penelope

The next morning, I wake up early.

There’s a split second where I have no idea where I am, and my eyes snap open, heart racing. The bed is soft and warm, piled high with blankets and pillows that feel like clouds against my skin. There’s no sound of groaning pipes or construction work outside the window. No neighbors shouting in the halls or people banging down the stairs and fire escapes.

Light floods the room from the four windows, and it hits me that I’m home.

Not home, home, in my shitty little apartment that’s barely holding itself together with hopes and dreams and overpriced rent, but the home I’m going to be sharing with the guys—my husbands—for the next year.

My mind races right along with my heart as I turn over the events of the day before.

I got married.

I pull my left hand out from under the covers, where the three rings from the men are nestled on my finger, stacked together into one beautiful unit. The diamond sparkles in the sunlight, and my chest tightens just looking at it.

If it wasn’t for the ring and the fact that I woke up here instead of in my twin bed at my apartment, I would think the day before was a dream. Because in what world does someone like me marry men like that? Handsome, capable, successful men who could have anything and anyone they wanted.

But there’s so much proof that it really happened, including the fact that if I close my eyes, I can almost feel Xavier’s lips on mine in his room last night.

I only wanted to thank him when I showed up there, but I didn’t anticipate him being shirtless or the way my body would react to the sight of him. Maybe it’s the Alpha in him, but he looked good. My hands wanted to touch all that warm skin, to see if he was as solid as he looked.

And then he touched me, tipped my chin up and kissed me, and everything in me wanted more.

“Get it together,” I mumble to myself, kicking my way free of the covers. “You’re not here for that. This is just business.”

I have to keep reminding myself of that or I’m never going to last the year in a house this big with these men who seem to take up all the space around them.

I get up and take my time washing my face and getting dressed. It’s a work day, so I opt for something classy and then do my hair and makeup.

Usually, I would cover the birthmark on my cheek with concealer and foundation, but I remember what Dominic said to me when he touched me in his office, and I leave it alone. It feels… odd. Like I’m leaving the house with no shoes on or something, but there’s a part of me that wants to please him.

The house is quiet when I get downstairs, and I walk through the lower level on silent feet, exploring the parts I glossed over last night. The living room is massive, and a huge TV dominates one wall of it, bookshelves that hold books and DVDs taking up the rest of the space on that wall, to either side of the TV. Thecouches look incredibly comfortable for all they probably cost more than most people’s cars, and the rug on the floor is so plush my toes sink right down into it.

The kitchen is also a marvel. There’s an island in the center of it, with four barstools on one side. The countertops are all pale marble, shot through with creamy pinks and shimmering gold. All the appliances look new, shiny stainless steel that has never seen a fingerprint. There’s a huge sink, and the fridge is like two of my old fridge put together, already fully stocked with the staples.

It’s the kind of kitchen that begs to be used, with the buckets of counter space and the shiny new stove, and I have the idea to make breakfast for my husbands before they get up.

That’s what wives do, right? We don’t have a traditional marriage by any stretch of the imagination, but making breakfast will be a nice gesture either way. Beginning like we mean to continue and getting off on a good foot.

I open the fridge again and pull out eggs and butter, as well as some veggies and bacon, with the idea to throw together some omelets for us all.

That idea quickly spirals out of control.

The truth is, I’m not a chef. The extent of my cooking skills is making toast, sandwiches, or a quick pasta dish that doesn’t take more than boiling water and opening a jar of sauce.

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