Page 24 of Knotted By my Pack
Add in how complicated her relationship history is, and it becomes a minefield I’ve always avoided.
But today? Watching her bend over, hearing her talk about another man like that, feeling my entire body react to her just being in the room?
That’s not nothing.
And now she’s in the shower. Naked. With steam curling around her skin and the scent of her Omega body drenching the air.
I groan into my hand and press my face to the cool marble counter. If I don’t calm down, she’s going to step out and know exactly what’s going on. She’ll smell it, and there’ll be no hiding it.
I close my eyes and try to think of anything else. Cold showers. Elias’ face. That helps. Barely.
The last thing I want to do is complicate what we have. Cora trusts me. She needs me. And I need to keep it that way. Even if it kills me.
I sit in the truck,engine idling low, one hand clenched around the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered.
My other hand rests against my thigh, tapping restlessly. I breathe in through my nose, slow and deep, but it doesn’t do much. Doesn’t settle the thing twisting low in my gut.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look... okay. Not dressed up, not dressed down. Just a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, buttons half-done because I couldn’t commit to closing it all the way.
My jeans are dark and clean. Boots polished. It’ll do.
I run a hand through my hair, messing it up just enough that it looks like I didn’t try too hard, then shut off the engine and step out.
Her house is quiet. I cross the walk to her door and knock once.
When the door swings open, I lose half the breath in my lungs.
She’s barefoot. Toes painted bright red. A thin silver anklet clings to one ankle, catching the light.
Her dress is short, barely grazing the tops of her thighs, deep emerald with thin straps and a neckline that leaves nothing to the imagination.
It hugs her body like it was made for her. Soft fabric, the kind you want to touch just to see how it moves. Her hair’s up, messy but purposeful. Her lips are bare, for now.
“Where are your shoes?” I ask, words scraping out dry.
“I’m finishing up. Sorry, I’m late,” she says, already turning back toward the bedroom.
“No problem.” I step inside, trying to keep my eyes anywhere but on the swing of her hips.
I make a beeline for the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge, twisting the cap off and taking a long pull.
The cold, the taste, the act of doing something—they help keep the parts of me that go haywire around her in check.
She comes back a few minutes later, and when I turn, the beer almost slips from my hand.
Bright red lipstick. Heels that do something sinful to her legs. The dress clings tighter now, or maybe that’s just my brain short-circuiting.
Her hair’s still up, a few strands loose around her neck. She’s a fucking knockout.
“You look good,” she says, grabbing her clutch. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “You look fantastic.”
“Where are we going? The usual?”
“There’s a new place that opened just outside town. Half an hour out. Thought we could try it.”
Her eyes light up. “Oh, fun! Something new.” She claps her hands once, excited. The sound is light and pure.
