Page 84 of Knot So Fast
I moan into his mouth, not caring about the hundreds of cameras capturing every second. My hands fist in his suit, pulling him closer, letting everyone see that this isn't one-sided.
That the mysterious Omega who just crashed their party belongs to their champion, and their champion belongs to her.
The shutters are going absolutely wild, the sound like a swarm of mechanical insects. I can hear shouted questions, exclamations of shock, at least three different languages worthof commentary on what they're witnessing. But it all fades to white noise compared to the roar of blood in my ears and the taste of Lachlan on my tongue.
He tastes like victory and energy drinks and something uniquely him that makes me want to climb him like a tree right here on the track. The hand on my throat tightens slightly, a warning or a promise, and I whimper in response.
That small sound seems to remind him where we are. He breaks the kiss but doesn't pull away, our lips still close enough that we're sharing breath, his forehead resting against mine. His eyes are dark with promise and frustration in equal measure.
"You're in so much fucking trouble," he grumbles, his voice rough with arousal and barely contained violence.
I smile, the expression probably more dazed than I intended. "But?"
I see the stubbornness flash in his gaze, the part of him that doesn't want to give me what I'm asking for because he knows it'll just encourage my reckless behavior. But I know how to wait him out. I stare back patiently, keeping my expression expectant, making it clear I'm not moving until he gives me what I need.
What we both need, really.
"You're fucking insane," he growls, but there's fondness mixed with the exasperation.
"Yes, I know that," I agree easily. "But that's not what I want to hear."
His jaw works as he fights his own nature. An Alpha praising an Omega who just pulled a stunt that could have gotten her killed, who exposed their relationship to the world without warning, who basically gave a massive middle finger to anyone who thought they could control her—it goes against every instinct bred into him.
But this is Lachlan.
My Wolf. The man who chose me over his career, who's been waiting for me to remember him, who just watched me take second place in my comeback race.
"You did good, Sugar," he finally says, the words firm and clear despite his obvious reluctance. "Really fucking good."
I have to bite back a squeal of delight, the praise hitting me like a shot of pure dopamine. Instead, I lean in closer, searching his face. "Really?"
He rolls his eyes, but his grip on my throat tightens as he pulls me in for another kiss—shorter this time, but no less possessive. When he pulls back, his voice carries enough to be picked up by the nearest microphones.
"Really. Now if you don't get moving, I'll keep my word and spank you right here and now."
The declaration causes an audible gasp from our audience, and I feel heat flood my face at his boldness.
The fact that he said it loud enough to be caught on tape, knowing it'll be replayed on every sports channel and gossip show for the next week—this man is more dangerous than I gave him credit for.
I squirm out of his hold, flicking my hair over my shoulder in a move that's pure bravado to cover my embarrassment.
"Leaving!"
Before the cameras can swarm us properly, Lachlan takes control of the situation. His hand captures mine in a grip that's gentle but unbreakable, and he starts leading me away from the chaos. His presence parts the crowd like Moses with the Red Sea—no one quite brave enough to get between an Alpha and his Omega when he's radiating this much protective energy.
But as we pass Dmitri, who's still sprawled on his ass like an overturned turtle, Lachlan pauses. The sudden stillness makes everyone around us freeze, the silence so complete I can hear my own heartbeat.
He crouches down next to the Russian driver with predatory grace, and when he speaks, his voice carries the kind of calm that precedes natural disasters.
"You dare raise your voice at my Omega ever again," he says, each word precise and deadly, "and I'll make sure those legs can't press anything ever again. Not a brake pedal, not a gas pedal, not even a fucking doorbell. Understand?"
He rises smoothly, adding something in Russian that makes Volkov's face go pale beneath his helmet. From the way several Russian journalists gasp, I'm guessing it wasn't a compliment about his driving skills.
Then we're moving again, Lachlan pulling me along with renewed purpose. The crowd parts even faster now, everyone suddenly very interested in being anywhere but in our path.
We're almost clear when one brave soul—a young reporter who probably drew the short straw—calls out desperately:
"What's your name? The Omega—what's your name?"
