Page 32 of In Control

I gulp down the last dredges of my coffee and then lean back into her, reaching around to place my empty cup on the counter. I kiss her cheek and smile to myself as she inhales my scent. A beta, so I’m told, won’t be able to appreciate the full effect of my scent. It won’t flood her senses, have her all wound up like it would another alpha or omega, but she can smell it – the citrus orange – just the same. And like my dancing, I’m told it’s pretty damn terrific.

“See you again, Sophia,” I whisper into her ear.

Then I spin and saunter out of the kitchen, pretty sure she’s checking out my arse as I go.

When I stumble back into my alpha’s room, I find him fresh out of the shower, a towel tied around his waist. He’s all wet and glistening and I’m horny as hell after my little encounter with the piece of ass in the kitchen.

I slide up to him, wrapping my arms around his middle.

“Where did you disappear off to this morning?”

“I went for a run.” He’s stiff in my arms and not in a good way. I frown. He’s pissed at me. He’s not a fan of the rolling-in-drunk business. I can sense a lecture coming. I guess this is what happens when your alphas are older than you. They take the daddy act a little too far.

I release him and flop back on the bed.

“Get it over with,” I tell him. “Then we can get to the fighting part and move on to the make-up fuck a whole lot quicker.”

He lets out a huff of frustrated air, picking up a towel from the radiator and rubbing it against his wet hair.

Fuck, I need a shag. A hard, letting-out-all-my-frustration rutting followed by a knotting. Despite my best efforts to seduce him last night, he hadn’t been interested, muttering something about sloppy seconds, and I had to contend with snuggling in bed with him instead.

But a man has needs. An omega has even greater needs.

Maybe those needs had been somewhat satisfied by the cute little blonde who’d got down on his knees in the club bathroom and sucked my cock. But as fun as it was in the moment, it’s never the same. Always leaves me feeling hollow afterwards.

I’m after something more.

“What’s the point. You never fucking listen, Gabe.”

“I’m listening now, Alpha,” I say.

In some ways he’s even more attractive when he’s pissed. A tense ball of muscle, hard and rough and violent. I want that power. I want it directed at me.

“One of these days,” he says, tossing the damp towel at me, “I’m going to be woken up by a fucking phone call and …” he swallows hard, “why can’t you take better care of yourself?”

The old scar running over my stomach twinges with his words.

“Just because I’m an omega, doesn’t make me weak,” I growl.

Haven’t I proved that? Shouldn’t he know that better than anyone?

The entire planet thinks omegas are weak, pathetic, little things, incapable of looking after themselves, of protecting themselves. Bullshit! I’ve been fighting against that misconception since the day I presented as a fucking omega. What I am did not stop me from doing what I love. I didn’t quit partying and drinking and fucking. I didn’t resign myself to a life locked in some alpha’s home. Not then. Not now.

It’s just fucking old when it’s your own bloody alphas buying in to the bullshit.

“You’re one man, Gabe. You wouldn’t stand a chance if there was more than one alpha.”

He’s being generous. I wouldn’t stand a chance against one alpha, despite my strength and physique. A lifetime of dancing, of lifting, of balancing, I’m fucking strong. But against an alpha? I’m smaller than them and they are killing machines.

What I lack in strength though, I make up for in street smarts. I look out for myself.

My scar’s proof of that.

“Not going to happen.”

He flops onto the bed beside me, cupping the back of my neck and kissing the crown of my head.

But he’s under my skin now. That pounding in my head has returned and I’m irritable as hell.

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