Beautifully Broken Omega: A Dark Reverse Harem Omegaverse Romance, page 12
I want to say no. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to leave this office, to put distance between myself and this alpha who’s affecting me in ways I don’t understand. But the thought of his hands on my skin again, even in the most clinical way, makes my pulse race with anticipation.
“Okay,” I hear myself say.
He gestures toward the leather couch against the far wall. “Have a seat. I’ll take a quick look.”
I move to the couch on unsteady legs, my hands trembling as I sit down. Griffin retrieves a small first aid kit from a cabinet and kneels in front of me, his movements precise and professional.
“I’ll need to roll up your pant leg,” he says, his hands hovering near my ankle.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
His fingers are gentle as they push up the fabric of my uniform pants, exposing the white gauze bandage wrapped around my calf. The touch is innocent, medical, completely appropriate. But my body responds like he’s stroking much more intimate places, heat flooding through me until I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
“The bandage looks clean,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the edges where the gauze meets my skin. “No signs of infection or excessive bleeding.”
It feels so good. Too good. Like instead of examining a simple cut, he’s touching every sensitive nerve in my body. I want to tell him to stop before I lose what’s left of my control, but I can’t make the words form.
More, I think desperately. I want more. I want those fingers everywhere.
“What were you thinking about when you were touching my pen, Kit?”
The words slice through me, gentle but exposing everything I’m trying to hide. My eyes snap to his face, and I find him watching me with an intensity that makes my mouth go dry.
How much I want your fingers to touch me. How much I want you to forget about being professional and show me what it feels like to be wanted instead of just tolerated.
But I can’t say that. Can’t admit that his simple touch is unraveling me completely. So I say nothing, just try to slow my breathing and pray he can’t see how much I’m affected.
A warmth is blooming between my thighs, unmistakable and overwhelming. I can feel myself growing wet, can smell the faint sweetness that’s starting to mix with my usual chamomile scent. If he notices—if he realizes what’s happening to me—
“Kit?” Griffin’s voice carries a note of shock, and when I look at him, his eyes are wide with something that might be recognition.
Oh God. He knows.
Chapter Eighteen
GRIFFIN
The smell of vanilla fills the air, clear and unmistakable now that I’m kneeling this close to her. Christ, it smells incredible. Sweet and warm and intoxicating in a way that has nothing to do with her usual chamomile scent.
It’s distinct now, impossible to ignore. More than enough to recognize what it is.
Slick. I’m smelling her slick.
What the fuck?
The realization sends electricity through every nerve ending in my body. Kit Ellis—beta Kit Ellis—is producing slick while I touch her leg, while I kneel between her thighs like I’m worshipping at an altar. The vanilla scent that’s been driving me insane, that I’ve been catching hints of for weeks...
How is that possible? She passed our background checks, her documentation says beta, her scent has always been that unremarkable chamomile. But there’s no mistaking what I’m smelling right now. No beta produces slick this sweet, this intoxicating.
Is that what she’s been hiding? That she’s an omega?
When I look up, I can see it written across her face—she wants me. Her smoky-gray eyes are dark, pupils dilated with desire. Her lips are parted, breathing shallow and quick, and she’s staring at my mouth like she’s imagining exactly what it would feel like pressed against hers.
The knowledge sends heat pooling in my groin, makes my hands shake where they rest against her calf. I should stop this. Should put her leg down, step away, remember that she’s my employee and this crosses every professional boundary I have.
But I can’t move. Can’t do anything but kneel here breathing in that sweet vanilla scent and trying not to lose what’s left of my control.
“Kit,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “You have to stop looking at me like that. There’s only so much self-control I have.”
But she doesn’t look away. If anything, her gaze becomes more intense, her breathing deeper. I watch her struggle between whatever instinct is driving her and the part of her that knows this is dangerous territory.
“I... I don’t know what you mean,” she whispers, but her voice is breathless, unconvincing.
Don’t you? I want to ask. Don’t you know what that vanilla scent is doing to me? How it’s making me forget every reason why I should keep my hands to myself?
She looks at my lips again, and this time her tongue darts out to wet her own. The sight of that pink tongue, the unconscious sensuality of it, makes me think of other places I want those lips to be.
Damn it.
Why can’t I stop? She’s an employee. I swore to never, ever cross that line. But here I am, kneeling between her legs, breathing in her scent like a man possessed. My arousal is becoming impossible to ignore, straining against my dress pants in a way that’s probably obvious from this angle.
The tension in the room grows thicker, more charged, like the air before a thunderstorm. Every breath feels loaded with possibility, with the promise of something that could change everything between us.
Our gazes meet and hold. For a moment, the world narrows to just this—her eyes on mine, that intoxicating scent growing stronger, the rapid rise and fall of her chest telling me she’s as affected as I am.
Then she kisses me.
The moment our lips touch, it’s like the world catches fire. Her mouth is soft and warm and everything I’ve been imagining, but the reality is so much better than any fantasy. She tastes like sweetness and desperation, like everything I’ve been denying myself for weeks.
It’s explosive, like striking a match in a room full of gasoline. Her mouth crashes against mine with desperate hunger, and I’m lost. Completely, utterly lost.
Her lips part beneath mine, opening when I deepen the kiss. When her tongue touches mine, tentative at first then bolder, I nearly come undone right there.
I cradle her face in my hands, thumbs stroking her cheekbones as I pour everything I’m feeling into this kiss. Years of discipline, of control—all of it crumbles the moment her tongue matches mine stroke for stroke.
She’s everywhere, hands fisting in my hair, pulling me closer like she can’t get enough. The sounds she makes—small, needy whimpers against my lips—drive me absolutely insane. I want to hear those sounds while I’m buried deep inside her, want to feel her come apart in my arms.
I’m seconds away from losing control completely, from coming right here fully clothed just from the taste of her mouth and the feeling of her hands in my hair. If I don’t stop now...
“Kit, sweetheart,” I breathe against her lips, the endearment slipping out before I can stop it, trying to summon some shred of sanity. “We need to slow down.”
The words are meant to give us both a moment to breathe, to think. But she stops immediately, pulling back like I’ve slapped her. The loss of contact is devastating.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps, hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
No. She’s misunderstood completely. The devastation in her eyes makes my chest ache. She thinks I don’t want this, don’t want her, when the truth is I want her so badly it’s destroying my control.
Before I can explain that she has nothing to apologize for, before I can pull her back into my arms and show her exactly how much I want this, she’s running. Literally fleeing my office like she’s been burned.
Shit.
I want to chase after her, to catch her in the hallway and explain that she misunderstood. That I only said we should slow down because I was about to lose control completely. Because I was seconds away from laying her back on this couch and showing her exactly what her scent does to me.
But I can’t. Not when I’m this hard, this obviously aroused. Anyone in the hallway would see exactly what state I’m in.
And even if I could, she’s skittish as a wounded animal. If I push too hard, too fast, I’ll lose any chance I might have with her.
I adjust myself through my pants, wincing at how hard I am. Her scent still lingers in the air, taunting me with what I can’t have.
I close and lock my office door with shaking hands, then lean back against the solid wood and close my eyes. It’s useless trying to regain control. All I can think about is the taste of her, the way she felt in my arms.
My body throbs with need I’ve been denying too long.
Fuck it.
I unzip my pants with trembling fingers, freeing myself. The relief is immediate but nowhere near enough. I close my eyes and let myself imagine what I really want.
In my fantasy, she’s spread across my desk, legs open wide, glistening with arousal. So wet, so beautiful, so ready. I slide into her slowly, feeling her stretch around me, her tight heat gripping me like silk. She gasps my name as I fill her completely, her back arching off the desk.
I take her until she’s writhing beneath me, her nails digging into my shoulders, begging for my knot. Until she comes so hard around me that her walls clench and flutter, milking me until I can’t hold back anymore. I knot her, claim her, mark her as mine.
The fantasy is so vivid that when I come it’s with her name on my lips and the phantom taste of vanilla on my tongue. The release is intense, devastating, but it does nothing to ease the ache in my chest that has nothing to do with physical need.
I want her.
Not just her body, though God knows I want that too. I want her brilliant mind, her quiet strength, her carefully guarded heart. I want to know what dimmed the light in those beautiful, gray eyes, what made someone so brilliant believe she had to become invisible to survive.
After what just happened, I think she might want me too.
The question is: what the hell am I going to do about it?
Chapter Nineteen
KIT
It was the longest shift of my life.
Every minute dragged by like an hour as I tried to focus on my tasks, but all I could think about was Griffin. The memory of his hands on my skin, the taste of his mouth against mine, the way I’d completely lost control and thrown myself at him.
I wanted to quit and ended up kissing my boss like I wanted to eat him whole.
The thought makes heat crawl up my neck, embarrassment warring with the arousal that still simmers beneath my skin. What was I thinking? How could I have lost control so completely? One moment I was rehearsing my resignation, and the next I was attacking him like some desperate omega in heat.
Except I’m not supposed to be an omega anymore.
Mia and Val finished up about ten minutes ago, their voices echoing down the hallway as they gathered their things and headed home. I finished restocking the supply closet on the fourth floor as quickly as possible, desperate to get out of this building and away from any chance of running into Griffin again.
The last thing I want is to face him after what happened in his office.
As soon as I step outside the building, the sky opens up.
Rain pours down in sheets, soaking through my uniform in seconds. Of course. It’s almost like the gods have it out for me tonight. I don’t have an umbrella, didn’t think to check the weather before leaving my apartment this afternoon in my haste to get here and quit.
I run toward the bus stop, my shoes splashing through puddles that seem to appear out of nowhere. By the time I reach the small shelter, I’m completely drenched. My navy polo clings uncomfortably to my skin, outlining every curve in a way that makes me cross my arms over my chest.
I’m not alone at the bus stop.
An alpha leans against the far end of the shelter, his eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. He’s young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of predatory smile that makes my stomach turn. His scent reaches me even through the rain—aggressive, demanding, nothing like the warm undertones I’ve been smelling from Griffin, Nolan, and Declan.
“Rough night?” he says, pushing off from the wall and taking a step closer. “You look like you could use some company.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, backing toward the opposite end of the small shelter. “The bus should be here soon.”
“Should be. But you never know with this weather.” Another step closer, and now I can smell the alcohol on his breath beneath his alpha scent. “My car’s right over there. I could give you a ride, make sure you get home safe and dry.”
Every instinct I have screams danger. This is exactly the kind of situation Roman used to warn me about, the reason omegas need protection, need alphas to keep them safe from other alphas. The irony would be laughable if I weren’t so terrified.
“No thank you,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m waiting for the bus.”
“Come on, beautiful. Don’t be like that.” His voice takes on that commanding tone alphas use when they expect immediate obedience. “I’m just trying to help.”
The headlights of a car turn into the parking lot, and I tense, hoping whoever it is will just drive past and not stop here. But then the driver’s window rolls down, and I nearly sob with relief when I see Nolan’s familiar face.
“Kit, get in.”
I don’t hesitate. All I can think about is getting away from the alpha whose scent is making my stomach turn with remembered fear.
“I’ll get your car wet,” I say as I reach for the door handle.
“I don’t care. Get in the car.”
I take one last look at the aggressive alpha, whose expression has shifted from predatory to angry now that his prey is escaping, and slip into Nolan’s passenger seat.
The moment I’m inside, his scent hits me like a wave. Smoky sandalwood, leather, and clove—warm and safe and infinitely better than the chemical aggression I was breathing a moment ago. Where the other alpha’s scent had made my stomach turn with revulsion, Nolan’s wraps around me like a protective blanket, making my shoulders relax immediately.
“Hold on,” he says, reaching into the backseat. I hear the rustle of fabric before he produces a clean towel from what must be a gym bag. “Here, dry yourself off before you catch pneumonia.”
The towel is soft and smells faintly of his scent. I press it to my face for just a moment, breathing him in, before using it to dry my hair and wipe the water from my skin.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to wipe the water from my face while simultaneously attempting not to drip all over his leather seats. “I’m getting everything wet.”
“Kit.” His voice is firm, drawing my attention to his face. Those blue eyes are dark with concern as they search my expression. “I don’t care about the car seat. Are you okay? That alpha looked dangerous.”
“Yes, I’m okay,” I say, though my hands are still shaking slightly from the encounter. “Thank you. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t—”
“Thank God I drove by when I did,” he says grimly, putting the car in drive. “What’s your address? I’m taking you home.”
I give him my address, and he pulls out of the parking lot and into traffic. “You shouldn’t be taking the bus this late, especially not alone.”
“I don’t have a car,” I say quietly. “The bus is usually fine.”
“Usually isn’t good enough.” There’s something protective in his voice, the same tone he’d used when he warned Val about her behavior. “I’ll drive you home from now on. When your shift ends, text me and I’ll pick you up.”
“Nolan, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he says firmly, his knuckles white where they grip the steering wheel. “After what just happened? I’m not letting you wait at bus stops alone anymore.”
I wait for him to continue, but he just turns his attention back to the road, his knuckles white where they grip the steering wheel.
Why? The question burns in my throat. Why would he offer to drive me home every night? He’s an alpha, wealthy, important. I’m just a cleaner. We exist in completely different worlds. It doesn’t make sense for him to go out of his way for someone like me.
I want to ask him. The words are right there, desperate to spill out. But every time I open my mouth, something stops me. Maybe I’m afraid of the answer. Or maybe I’m afraid there isn’t one that would make sense to either of us.
We drive in silence for a few minutes, the rain drumming against the windows while the heater slowly warms my chilled skin. I sneak glances at his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the way his hands grip the steering wheel with casual competence. He’s taken off his suit jacket, and I can see the way his white dress shirt stretches across his broad shoulders.
I realize this is the perfect time to quit. Tell him I’m leaving, end this before it goes any further. But every time I open my mouth to speak, the words stick in my throat.
“How’s your leg?” he asks, glancing over at me with genuine concern. “Griffin told me about the accident with the vase. I’ve been telling him to get rid of that hideous thing for months—I knew it was an accident waiting to happen.”
And there it is again. That same look I saw on Griffin’s face, like he actually cares about my wellbeing instead of just seeing me as a liability or inconvenience. The worry in his voice when he talks about my injury makes something flutter in my chest.
“Griffin said you were bleeding pretty badly. We were worried about you.”
They were worried about me. The thought sends heat pooling low in my belly, and I have to resist the urge to press my thighs together.
