Page 11 of Knot the Last Chapter

You okay?

Yeah. Just... letting your compliments go to my head.

Be careful. Ego inflation can be fatal.

So can repressed heat symptoms.I don’t know why I type it. I don’t even let myself think too hard. It just spills out like a dare.

There’s a long pause. I watch the dots blink in and out like he’s typing and deleting, typing and deleting.

Then:That sounds serious. Should I be concerned?

Only if you're the kind of alpha who’s allergic to complicated omegas with overactive imaginations and zero filter.

On the contrary. That’s my favorite kind.

My stomach tightens, heat pooling low. My breath catches just a little.

I don’t know if he’s flirting. But it feels like flirting. Gentle. Slow. Like he’s easing toward something neither of us has said out loud.

You’re dangerous, Pine.

I work with power tools and unguarded emotions. Of course I’m dangerous.

That gets a laugh-snort out of me. I tuck my legs under me, fingers flying.

I’ve decided you’re tall. Brooding. You wear black t-shirts that ride up just enough when you stretch, and you probably have a mysterious scar and a secret love for poetry.

...Should I be flattered or concerned that you’ve invented myentire aesthetic?

You’re exactly the kind of trouble a mystery writer needs.

Want to hear a secret?

I freeze. My thumbs hover.

Always.

I check my phone more often than I should. Hoping to hear from you.

Heat rises behind my cheeks. My pulse flutters, fast and bright. For a moment, I forget what I was even trying to write.

I don’t know what this is, exactly. I don’t know who he is, not really. But he’s turning into the part of my day I look forward to most. The part that feels like mine.

You’re not so bad yourself, Pine. For an imaginary alpha.

Careful, Plot Bunny. If you imagine me too vividly, I might start imagining back.

My fingers tremble just a little as I type:And what would you imagine doing to me?

My face burns. I press the back of my hand to my cheek. What am I doing? This isn’t me. I don’t flirt like this. I don’t flirt at all.

But he doesn’t hesitate, like he’s been thinking about it for days and it’s exploding out of him.

You. Kneeling for me. Your eyes heavy, lips parted, scent sweet and begging. Me behind you, holding you still while your heat makes you whimper and rut into my palm.

Oh.

My breath catches in my throat. My thighs clench together automatically, and I sink deeper into the chair.

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