Copyright © 2024 by Lilith K. Duat

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  The story, all names, characters and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings and products is intended or should be inferred.

  Cover Design by Amy Nova

  Contents

  A Message from the Port Haven Authors

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  The Show is Over?

  Knot Safe For Work

  Perfume & the AlphaBetas Duet

  About The Author

  Also by Lilith K. Duat

  A Message from the Port Haven Authors

  Amy Nova and Lilith K. Duat believe in having a good time.

  We also believe in the power of informed consent.

  And we hate it when the juicy part is spoiled.

  So, if you'd like to skip the content overview and get right to the juicy parts, head to Chapter 1.

  All I wanted to do was blow off some steam at a concert. I didn’t expect to meet my scent matches. Before we even know each other’s names, my three alphas and I secretly see just how much dirty stuff we can get away with.

  In public.

  Surrounded by hundreds of screaming fans.

  And then they take me to their place to make me one of the pack.

  Mating Dance is a short but kinky MMFF Omegaverse story with 2 male alphas, one female alpha, and one female omega.

  A big theme of this story is exhibitionism. There is a great deal of it to be found within the text! There is public sex, as well as sneaky activities in a crowded space. Tattooing, body paint, biting, DP, collars, and oral are the fun shenanigans the pack gets up to. There is a quick scene involving vomit in a non-sexual sense. Everything is enthusiastically agreed upon.

  Please visit the Port Haven Omegaverse website for the content overview for all the books in the universe. https://porthavenomegaverse.com/content-warnings

  Chapter 1

  It had been a crappy day. A lot of people browsing, but very few sales. No one appreciates the actual value of original artwork. Any profit I do make doesn’t come close to covering the cost of paint, canvas and other supplies. Forget about being compensated for the time it takes to make art.

  Add to the fact that I’m clearly an omega, and can get a cushy government payout every month and low rent in high-end real estate, well, pockets seem to magically sew themselves shut. Or they open up for a night with an omega. Did that once. Never again.

  The stalls at the outdoor town market were closing up. I procrastinated the tear down in hopes that any final straggler’s eyes would roam across my display and find just the perfect painting for their den or nest and buy it.

  No such luck.

  “How were sales, Cai?”

  I looked over to the nice ladies in the stall two spaces away from me. They were packing away their merchandise; pottery. Unique mugs, vases, plates and things like that, complete with a potter's wheel for live demonstrations.

  I hated being called Cai. It's one of the most overused names on the planet. It's our generation’s John. But, the pottery women have never been anything but kind to me, so I let it slide.

  “Eh,” I shrugged. “Who wants to lug around awkward canvases when they can just carry an ice slushy and show off their new Ask Me About My Big Dinghy t-shirt?”

  She frowned with sympathy. “Sorry about that, dear. But it’ll pick up next month, right?”

  I forced a tight smile and nodded.

  Next month.

  I didn't have the heart to tell her that this might be my last hurrah, not sure I can afford a stall next month.

  With a defeated sigh, I popped a wireless earbud into my ear and turned on my Scent of the Senseless playlist before I went through the motions of closing up shop. I started taking the canvases off their hooks and putting them in their milk crates and portfolio bags.

  Maybe next time. Or maybe I should just give up.

  I shook my head and took down the vinyl banner with Fine Art by Caira in big gold letters, folded it, then did the same with the black tablecloth that I had purposefully spattered in gold and blue paint.

  I wouldn’t let this pull me under. The day wasn’t over. Tonight, I was going to see Scent of the Senseless live, and that was sure to lift my dying spirit.

  Chapter 2

  I loved concerts. They were my escape from everyday life, away from thoughts of money, unrecognized talent, and my dreams of my work being on the walls of an art gallery. For a few hours I take all the worries and concerns and stress I’d been carrying around, drop them, and go absolutely feral in a crowd of hundreds that were letting loose just like me. There was nothing like feeling the music in the pit of my stomach. Even bad concerts, where shouty, sloppy frat boy alphas spill beer down my back or girls shoot filthy glances filled with jealousy in my direction because I was just pretty enough to be a threat; even those are a great time.

  Some people, like my family, thought it wasn’t the smartest idea for an omega to go to concerts alone. Some people had the outdated ideas that omega equaled weak, demure, submissive. Especially without a pack.

  I was just like any other person, and I had just as much right to be here as anyone else.

  The sweaty, thrashing, screaming, singing bodies around me? These were my people. This was my pack.

  Omega Overdose were a metalcore band that were quickly rising in fame. This was their first show in Port Haven and in the ten minutes they had been on stage, they were absolutely killing it, and they were just the warm up band for the headliners, Scent of the Senseless.

  I had floor tickets, which was always my favourite place to be. I didn’t usually go into the mosh pit, I’d rather experience the show on stage than bash myself against riled up alphas and betas. I was an enthusiast, not insane.

  Omega Overdose ended their set to rapturous applause, though to be honest, at these types of shows, we’re all so hyped up that we’ll praise anything if it has the right energy. It doesn’t have to be good, just real. Lucky for the opening band, they were sincere.

  The house lights came up, and the stage hands and roadies began to tear down and set up. A drudging process but necessary, and useful for the crowd to get refreshments.

  I could use another beer.

  I wove through the crowd, and many of us already had the thin coating of sweat glistening on our bodies. I know I did. So many auras. So many scents. I slid into the line, which was really more of a cloud, of a merch booth, and looked over the offers of t-shirts, stickers and patches all hung up on a display. Maybe I’d get an Omega Overdose shirt. I’d definitely get one of Scent of the Senseless.

  When I had finally reached the front of the “line”, I selected a Scent of the Senseless crop top.

  “Can I also get a packet of scent blockers?” I asked. I knew my nose was in a perpetual wrinkle, trying to ignore all the scents burning through the theatre. A few years ago, the use of scent blockers and suppressants were a social courtesy for things like concerts, sporting events, and fairs. Events where people gathered in large groups and brimmed with energy and adrenaline. Lately, “going natural” had become popular. It was annoying.

  I couldn’t control what other people did with their scents and auras, but I could at least be courteous of those around me and let them enjoy the show without the distraction of my scent.

  The cashier handed me the shirt and a packet of pills. I paid, and walked to a private corner of the venue to change into my new tank. I turned to face the concrete wall, pulled off my old Scent of the Senseless t-shirt and pulled on my new crop top. It came down just below my ribs and showed off my flat stomach. I nicked the scoop neck a little, and tore a vertical slit about an inch down, to really show off my chest. I shook out my pink and violet hair to give it some volume and craze, finger-combed it, and let it fall down past my shoulders.

  At the bar, I once again stood in a cluster of people, waiting to get a beer. I was surrounded by scents and auras. I could feel them creeping along the naked skin of my arms, and getting caught in my hair. I’d need a hell of a shower when I got home.

  But none of that mattered right now.

  I finally got my beer in its sticky, flimsy plastic cup. It had too much foam and was a little warm, especially for the price, but it was all part of the experience.

  Some people choose to go on cruises, some people want to go to theme parks, my escape is concerts.

  I put my cup down on a ledge and opened the packet of scent dampeners. I popped one out of the blister pack, placed it on my tongue, and drowned it in a deluge of over-priced beer. Half way through drinking, the lights went down. Scent of the Senseless was taking the stage. How long had I been in the lineup for a drink?

  I slithered through the crowd, shouldering and shimmying my way as close to the stage as I could manage. If I was lucky maybe the lead singer would notice me. Maybe I could swindle my way backstage. Maybe I could party with the band. It wouldn’t be the first time I got a free invitation to enjoy what goes on behind the curtain. I’d ridden my share of musicians for the fun of it. But Teryn Ross would be the notch to end all notches. The trophy of trophies.

  His long, strong thighs in his ti ght torn jeans. His rippling muscles lacing through his stomach and wrapping like snakes around his bones. Broad shoulders, long silver hair just begging for me to pull it as he kisses me hard enough to bring blood to the surface of my pouting lips, swelling them, making them beg for him.

  A girl can’t help what she wants.

  The riot of the instruments invaded my body, the intense vibrations kicking at my stomach and thrumming under my skin. Nothing gets me as slick as feeling a powerful baseline hum deep in my core and the violent growls of a metalhead front man’s voice in the air.

  The band was halfway through the second song when it hit me. At first I didn’t know what it was, what had distracted me from the show? Weed? There was plenty going around, permeating the oxygen like we had all agreed to hotbox together.

  No.

  It wasn’t the weed.

  There was another smell.

  Something out of place. Something that shouldn’t be here but none the less was. The sweet, tart scent that drifted into my nose and across my tongue. Cool, refreshing strawberry-lemonade. I could practically taste the cold, sour sweetness. And there was a note of caramelized sugar. Like a creme brulee with lemon zest on top. I imagined the crystalized sugar snapping on the tip of my tongue.

  It was all I wanted now.

  It was mine.

  You know those cartoons where there’s a trail of scent? That’s what it felt like, like the scent was so strong I could almost see it, and it had a mind of its own, a personality, awareness, sapience.

  It was… my scent match.

  I turned away from the stage and shoved my way through the ocean of bodies all vying to get as up close and personal as possible to the band. That had no real draw to me anymore. Strawberry-lemonade and sugar did.

  I smelled him. Did he smell me?

  I nearly tripped as I stumbled to a stop. Oh shit. The scent blockers I had taken.

  How long had it been since I had taken them? It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. They were fast-acting though and were probably in my system by now, dampening my natural scent. Soon I’d smell as basic as a beta.

  I had to purge my system, exorcize the drugs from my body if I had any chance of my scent match finding me.

  I shoved my way through the crowd, struggling to the edge of the throng of sweat-drenched bodies. I bent over the first barrel-drum carved trashcan I found, stuck my fingers in my mouth, and retched out beer, foam, and hopefully pills.

  Shaking, I spat the last of the mess into the garbage. The things we do for lust.

  I was keenly aware of the fact that puke-breath might overpower my tamped-down scent. The world was a cruel and unfair place.

  Well Caira, you’ve really done it now.

  Maybe I could drown the smell with more beer? I spared a gaze at the refreshment stalls and while the customers had thinned out somewhat, fighting the crowd of concert goers between me and the taps was futile.

  I acted without thinking and grabbed some girl’s beer right out of her hand.

  “Hey!” She hollered but I had disappeared into the crowd before she even saw me. I drank down a deep swallow, then took in another mouthful and swished it around like it was mouthwash. I spat my backwash into the cup and tossed it into another drum-barrel trash can. From the back pocket of my jeans I took out a little container of breath strips and snapped it open. Only two left. I put both on my tongue and like cling wrap they immediately floated to the roof of my mouth where they stuck like glue as they dissolved. I breathed in. I breathed out.

  Better.

  I shook out my hands and shoulders, and tried to give myself to the music, the concert-going experience, and let the music take me while I meditated on the scent. I did my best to relax, and grasp that sweet lemony aroma. My brow furrowed as I tried to pinpoint the location. But the lemon was drifting off to the left. And the sugar to the right.

  What was going on?

  A combustion of light drowned the darkness behind my eyelids as the stage exploded in a conflagration of pyrotechnics. I opened my eyes and searched through the screaming crowd. The smell of smoke and flame clouded up everything and the excitement all around me made new scents and auras burst like fireworks. Lemons were fading and Caramelized Sugar was lost. My throat was parched and my chest ached. I felt so alone.

  Fuck it. It was just a missed connection. Maybe I wasn’t meant to meet my scent match. At least, not tonight. Maybe never.

  The thought made me wince, and pain lanced through my heart, planting anger. There was only one place where you could dislodge anger at a concert.

  I prowled through the crowd and marched, heavy-booted, to the mosh pit.

  Mosh pits are like black holes, like under tow. They pull you into their being, surround you, and you have to play with friendly fire to keep yourself afloat. I willfully sank into the thrashing bodies of the mosh pit, flailing and tossing my head, stomping my feet. Pushing my limits and being pushed. I could smell sweat, and hot breath, weed, slick, yearning.

  Lemons.

  Strong arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me to the shores of the pit. His thighs were at my rear, one leg between mine so I was sitting almost straddling it. A hole in my jeans let my naked skin brush against his denim. The scent of lemons overpowered everything else, almost like it was a sound, drowning out everything around me. I took a deep breath in, and fresh, sweet, tangy, ice-cold strawberry-lemonade slid across my tongue and to the back of my throat. I purred and leaned into his chest. His jacket, leather and denim, was like a cushion between us. The patches scratched pleasantly against my shoulder blade, the studs poked into my tender flesh. Even through all that, I felt the rumble in his chest as he echoed my purr.

  He found me.

  I was panting now.

  He leaned over me, his lips at my ear. “I’m Raine,” was all he said.

  “Caira,” I answered, but I doubt he heard me over the clamor all around us.

  “Are you alright?” Even as he asked, his hands started roaming, exploring my body, and I knew he wasn’t checking for injuries. His palm ran across my stomach. His thumb and pointer finger slid under my tank top and grazed the bottom of my bra.

  “Did anyone hurt you?” His teeth captured the cuff in the cartilage of my ear.

  I looked down at his arms, at the tattoos peeking out from the sleeves of his jacket.

  “No,” I rocked my hips against the zipper of his jeans. “Nothing happened. I’m alright.”

  “Good.” He… Raine… cupped my left breast with his right hand. He slid into my bra and cradled it gently, like it was a precious, fragile thing. “Because if anyone hurt my omega, I would kill them.”

  His thumb circled my nipple, making it hard. I trembled.

  “Especially now that I had just finally found her.”

  I turned my head and yearned for him to kiss me. All I could smell was his Summertime scent of strawberry-lemonade and cold. Fresh. It felt youthful, like he exuded a life-sustaining elixir. I wanted a taste, a little sip of his forever.

  “You found me,” I said, putting my thoughts into words. “I’m yours.”

  I pressed into his crotch with more urgency. I wanted him. Now. Here. There were hundreds of people all around us that could just forget about the band and stare at our little show. I didn’t give any of them a second thought.

  The song changed, the intro to Smells Like Destiny plowed through the theatre, barreling through the fans like a stampede. Raine pressed his hand low on my belly, holding me close.

  “This is my favourite song,” he said. “Dance with me.”

  I reached up and wrapped my arms around his neck. His hair was over-grown but not too-long. Shaggy. Messy. I wondered what color. He had seen me but I had yet to see him.

  We moved together. He grew a little more respectful and hugged me around my middle, protective and possessive. My alpha wanted to possess me.

  The leather of his sleeve creaked against my bare stomach as he embraced me, murmuring familiar lyrics into my ear that I already had tattooed on my memory.

  “I’d know you even in your grave.

  I’d find you though you’re far away.

  It only makes sense this way.

 

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