Page 100 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
Confessions of a City Omega
Does Size Really Matter?
Dearest Diary,
Let’s address the python in the pants, shall we?
I’ve been blessed (cursed?) with three specimens of prime Alpha real estate. And while they’re all impressive in their own ways, one of them is packing some SERIOUS heat. Like, how-do-you-find-pants-that-fit level of impressive.
I’ve been dreaming about it.Wondering how it would feel in my hands. My mouth. Other places that would make this blog for adults only.
But what about the others? Should I feel guilty for comparing? Is it wrong that I spent time sneaking glances at certain areas for research purposes?
The thing is, they each bring something different to the table (or bed, hypothetically speaking). One has technique that could probably make me come from kissing alone. Another has stamina that suggests he’d keep going until I begged for mercy. And the third? Well, let’s just say he’s got the equipment to reach places I didn’t know existed.
Tonight’s Omega Wisdom:Size matters less than enthusiasm. Less than caring about your partner’s pleasure. Less than taking the time to learn what makes them fall apart.
But when you find someone with size AND skill AND the desire to worship you like a goddess? That’s when you spend time wondering if your legs will ever stop shaking.
Had dinner with certain someones tonight. Played games that revealed way too much. Remembered what it’s like to be wanted just for being myself.
So maybe what really matters isn’t what’s in their pants, but what’s in their hearts. Maybe the real treasure is finding Alphas who take down photos that hurt you without being asked. Who cook feasts just to find out what you like. Who build sanctuaries for broken things and see beauty where others see damage.
(But also, seriously, HOW does one like that find jeans that fit?)
City Omega out.(Still comparing. Still curious. Still absolutely shameless about it.)
Ihit publish with a wicked grin, scooping up the nearest kitten, who then purrs against my chest.
Game on, cowboys. Game absolutely on.
19
WALKER
The morning sun streams through the dining room windows, painting golden rectangles across the hardwood floor. I’m nursing my second cup of coffee, appreciating the rare quiet moment. Ridge sits across from me, absorbed in the local paper, occasionally making disgusted noises at whatever political nonsense they’re reporting today.
That peace shatters when Cash crashes through the door with all the subtlety of a spooked mustang.
“Christ, did you read Sophia’s latest blog?” He’s practically vibrating, phone clutched in his hand.
Ridge doesn’t even glance up from his paper. Just rolls his eyes hard enough to strain something. “You enjoying your daily dose of Omega gossip?”
“You’d be surprised what you can learn between the lines,” Cash shoots back, then swings his attention to me. “Walker, back me up here.”
I lean back in my chair, taking another slow sip of coffee. “Maybe back off on the cyberstalking of our scent-matched Omega.”
Cash grins wickedly. “You hearing yourself? As her scent matches, we should be hunting her down, making her live with us, in our bed. But sure, let’s keep giving her space while you pine from a distance. And worse yet, the rest of us have to suffer the same.”
“Nobody’s pining,” I say, though the memory of last night’s kiss is burned into my brain. The way she melted against me, the little sound she made when I pulled her closer…
“Right,” Cash draws out the word. “That’s why you spent twenty minutes arranging wildflowers in that mason jar last night for dinner.”
“Those were already there.”
“You measured the stems with a ruler.”
Ridge finally sets down his paper, staring at me.
