Page 7 of Bonded By Christmas
“Talk to me, Grim,” she huffs. “I worry about you.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. A training session got a little too intense,” I say, stretching the truth.
“Wait, are you a personal trainer?”
“Private security, but sometimes I train the new guys.” That wasn’t a flat-out lie. I do spend a lot of time working with the newbies to ensure they understand protocol and they’re up to the task of keeping the client safe.
It still doesn’t make me feel any less shitty.
“That’s a cool job. I thought you had some military or police training.” Lacey pulls a hand up, running her fingers through my beard as her head rests against my shoulder. “Do you work a lot? Is that why you can’t come in more often?”
I grunt.
I don’t let myself come in more than once a week, because I’m already concerned that my system views her as mine. If I saw her more often, I’m not sure I wouldn’t kidnap her ass to prevent her from seeing other customers.
“Yeah, I can imagine working private security is a full-time job,” she says, teasing her thumb over my jaw as her fingers fluff my beard. “Okay, well, we should make the most of our time together. Want to snuggle on the treatment table?”
A low growl rattles out of my chest.
She’s entirely too sweet.
And now all I can wonder is how many liberties the other assholes she sees take with how tender and giving she is.
The difficult part of being this close to Lacey is that my dick turns into a petulant teenager. No amount of rationalizing will communicate to him that he’s not needed. Especially when Lacey and I lie side-by-side on a bed with my face buried in her throat as she runs her fingers over the back of my neck.
“I was thinking about adopting a kitten,” she says out of nowhere.
A low rumble of a laugh escapes my lips. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “I’d love a little fluff ball to come home to. I like dogs too, but I’m gone a lot in the evenings, and I feel like cats are naturally more independent. Is that a stereotype?”
“I have no idea,” I admit, fighting the urge to lick her scent from her skin.
Stay focused.
Don’t let the fog slip in.
I’m so fucking entranced by her.
It’s dangerous to be this close, but it’s also the only thing that’s going to heal my system.
At least outside of a claiming bite.
Rabid alphas only have one chance at mental clarity—bonding a scent-matched omega.
My teeth ache with the urge to plunge them into her soft flesh, and I exhale heavily.
I spend a lot of time worrying if the other alphas she sees are a danger to her, but I might be the worst offender. She’s far too trusting for how addled my mind is.
I hate it more than anything.
Not being able to trust myself is a mindfuck, when a few years ago I had perfect control over my system.
It’s the last thing I want to do, but I tug my face free of her throat, nuzzling my beard to her cheek before studying her face.
She laughs. “Your beard tickles, but I kinda love it.”
We’re both fucked.
