I can’t believe Christine has ever really cared about anyone else.
Least of all me.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
CHRISTINE
As much asI hate watching Mylo leave the trailer, I think it’s better than risking someone seeing us together or me growling at my own driver.
My ears twitch, following him as he loops around the car and slides inside.
The only thing that keeps me from sprinting out after him is his lingering scent, sweet and tart like a blood orange. It clings to my skin, to the couch, to my yoga pants where they’re folded by my duffel bag.
Then there’s a stronger whiff, sharp with pink peppercorn. I follow it to the trash can in the bedroom. Even if I didn’t see the waistband of his shorts, I’d know what it was by how the scent goes straight to my cunt.
I should go find a plastic bag, wrap this up, open some windows.
I definitely shouldn’t grab the still-damp shorts, bring them to my nose, and take a deep breath.
Every cell flares to life.
Colors gleam brighter, sounds tune sharper, a thousand scents peel apart into their individual messages. My heart thunders in my chest, my muscles flood with energy, ready to fight or fuck.
How did Ieverthink Mylo was a beta?
I should’ve known that citrus scent was too bright and deep to be some vape.
I should’ve known the first time I pinned him and got a good look at his eyes, catching the sun, and would have sworn I saw fiery orange behind that brown.
But I trusted his rounded ears, his dull teeth. Piece of cake for any cosmetic surgeon, especially in LA.
I should have known that Mylo is an omega, just on sheer alpha instinct.
Right now, I should know better than to take another deep breath from those shorts literally soaked in his scent. And I should know much, much better than to slide my hand under my waistband and into my dripping cunt.
My legs shudder under me, and I sink onto the bed. With my fingers hooked around, I grind against my palm, working my clit from both sides.
God, it feels good.
I can imagine those fingers are Mylo’s cock as I rock my hips smooth and slow. But as my inner muscles clamp, crushing my fingers, searching for a lock, there’s just no substitute.
I teeter at the cusp of climax, body trying to hold back my release, to wait until my omega is where he belongs.
I tasted his blood, claimed his pleasure.
He should be mine.
My instincts are on-edge, wary, confused. They know something went wrong: his scent didn’t shift how it’s supposed to, didn’t take on a hint of my sea breeze.But why?
Of course, I know why.
Mylo isn’tmyomega.
My body finally can’t hold out anymore, and a violent climax tears through me, soaking my palm, draining all this excess static.
My breath slows, and I relax against the mattress.
