Page 20 of Roulette Rodeo
"Oops. I can't with you rather wrapped around me like I'm a tree."
Her face achieved a shade of red I didn't know was possible for human skin.
"I... don't know how I got up here?! B-But... I... don't know you! I'm using my act of self-defense."
"If that will make you stop tightening your legs around me, then sure," I admitted, trying to keep my voice steady even as she shifted against me. "I really can't get any harder."
She shrieked—actually shrieked—and tried to unwrap her legs. But between the sweat, the awkward position, and what I was beginning to suspect was a medical condition affecting her muscle control, she started to fall.
I caught her before she could brain herself on the floor, lowering us both until she was looking up at me from an entirely new position. On her back, hair spread out like a crimson halo, those whiskey eyes wide with nervous energy that was absolutely fucking adorable.
"Uh... my legs aren't really working right now," she admitted, and there was something vulnerable in her voice that made me want to murder whoever had taught her to be ashamed of weakness.
"Great," I said with a huff that was mostly for show.
Inside my swirling mind, I was calculating odds, running scenarios, planning twelve different ways to keep her safe while finding out who she was, where she'd come from, and how quickly I could get her to accept my pack.
Because this omega?
This fierce, innocent, complicated creature who kissed like sin and slapped like a warrior?
This omega was going to be fun.
Like Vegas itself—all flash and danger on the surface, but underneath, a game of probability and patience.
And I'd always been good at playing the long odds, at waiting for the perfect hand.
In poker terms, she was a royal flush in a game I’d thought was just another bluff.
And I was all in.
WHAT'S MY NAME?
~RED~
Looking up at him from the floor, I finally had a moment to truly take in this stranger who'd just demolished my entire understanding of self-control.
His scent wrapped around me like expensive sheets—luxurious, overwhelming, and impossible to escape.
It was mine but more, twisted into something distinctly masculine that made every omega instinct in my body screammine. The cherries I carried turned into cherry tobacco in him, rich and forbidden like something my grandfather would have hidden from my grandmother. My spiced honey became bourbon-soaked amber, each note aged in charred oak barrels until it could make you drunk just from breathing. The cherrywood smoke that clung to me transformed into sandalwood and gunpowder in him—danger and meditation wrapped in one impossible package.
But there was more, notes that were purely him:rain on hot concrete like Vegas after a storm, dark chocolate bitter enough to make your mouth water, elderflower wine that spoke of sophistication I'd never achieved.
And underneath it all, leather.
Not the cheap, synthetic leather of casino couches, but real, broken-in leather that had seen miles and stories and blood.
He smelled like what would happen if someone turned my scent into a weapon.
A lethal weapon…
"You're not supposed to be on this side of the gym," I said, trying to sound authoritative while flat on my back with non-functioning legs.
His lips quirked—not quite a smile, more like amusement at a poker table when you knew you had the winning hand.
"We're not supposed to be in this storage closet either, but here we are, hmm?"
"That's different!" I tried to sit up, failed spectacularly, and settled for glaring at him from my horizontal position. "This is theomegasection. It's off-limits to alphas for a reason."
