Page 37

Chapter

Twenty-Five

DARREN

The door swings open, and there she is, hair adorably tousled from sleep, wearing an oversized sweater that falls to mid-thigh, legs bare. My mouth goes dry at the sight.

"Morning," I say, holding up the coffee and pastry bag like an offering. "Too early?"

Her sleepy smile is answer enough. "Never too early for coffee." She steps back, gesturing me inside. "Though a text warning might've been nice. I look like I just rolled out of bed."

"You look perfect," I say, meaning it. Seeing her like this, soft and rumpled and unguarded, is impossibly sexy.

She rolls her eyes but accepts the coffee I hand her, taking a grateful sip. "Mmm, you remembered my order."

"Two pumps of vanilla, a splash of oat milk," I confirm, following her into the kitchen. "I pay attention to the important things."

"Apparently." She peers into the pastry bag. "Chocolate croissants? You're spoiling me."

"You need to raise your standards if you think that's spoiling, gorgeous," I say, winking at her. "But plenty of time for that. I just figured you might be hungry after last night. We talked a lot."

"And ate a lot," she says with a laugh. "I should still be full from all the baked goods."

"You'll develop a secondary dessert stomach," I say with absolute certainty. "For survival."

We settle at her small kitchen table, knees bumping in the limited space. I don't mind. Any excuse to be close to her.

"So," she says after finishing her croissant, "what brings you by so early? Besides being a very hunky breakfast delivery service."

"Hunky delivery, huh?" I muse, scratching at my stubble. "Sounds like a business in there."

She laughs. "If you get tired of hockey, I'm sure there is. Zayn could plan it out."

I snort. "We already come close enough to killing each other on the ice. I don't even want to think about adding numbers into the mix."

I take a sip of my coffee, buying more time to answer her question from a second ago. The truth is, I couldn't stay away. After last night, after the pack's revelation and Lexie's cautious acceptance, I needed to see her. To make sure she hadn't changed her mind in the cold light of morning.

"The truth is, I came over because I wanted to check in," I admit. "Make sure you were okay after everything last night. It was a lot to take in."

She studies me over the rim of her coffee cup, those warm brown eyes seeing more than I'm comfortable with. "I'm processing," she says finally. "Still wrapping my head around the whole 'scent match to five professional athletes' thing."

"Yeah, that's not something you hear every day. For what it's worth, I'm still processing too."

"Really?" She looks surprised. "But you've known for days."

"Knowing and understanding are different things." I pick at my second croissant, suddenly not as hungry. "I still can't fully smell it—the match, I mean. These suppressants dull everything. But I feel it. Have since we met."

"What does it feel like?" she asks, genuine curiosity in her voice. "For you, I mean."

I consider the question, trying to put into words something that exists mostly as instinct and feeling.

"Like... recognition. Like meeting someone and immediately knowing they matter, even if you can't explain why.

" I meet her eyes, wanting her to understand.

"It's not just biology, Lexie. The scent match might be what drew me to you initially, but it's not why I keep coming back. "

"No?" Her voice is soft, almost vulnerable.

"No," I say firmly. "I come back because you're smart and funny and kind. Because you make incredible sweaters and climb through bathroom windows to escape insurance salesmen. Because of that cute little way your nose wrinkles when you laugh."

A flush spreads across her cheeks, but she holds my gaze. "You make it sound so simple."

"It can be," I say, reaching across the table to take her hand. "If we let it."

Her fingers twine with mine, warm and delicate against my calloused palm. "What about the pack? Are you sure they're as on board as they say?"

"Are you kidding? They haven't shut up about you since you left," I tell her. "Even Zayn is smitten."

She blushes the most perfect shade of pink I've ever seen. "And what about the omega thing? How are you handling that?"

The question catches me off guard, though it shouldn't. Lexie has a way of cutting through bullshit, of asking the questions that matter.

"Some days are better than others," I admit, more honest with her than I've been with anyone since the presentation. "The suppressants help with the physical stuff, but the rest..." I shrug, not sure how to articulate the identity crisis that's been raging inside me for weeks.

It's only intensified since finding out Lexie is my scent match and I realize it's because I want to get the full effect, to indulge my endless curiosity about this woman and her scent.

But I'm also afraid. Afraid that if I let that side of myself out, if I stop fighting the omega nature I only recently found out about, she'll decide I'm not enough. Or that I'm too much.

"The rest is harder," she finishes for me, understanding in her eyes.

"Yeah." I squeeze her hand, grateful for her perception. "It's like I spent twenty-seven years building an identity around being a certain kind of player, a certain kind of man. And now I'm supposed to be someone else entirely."

"But you're not," she says, her voice surprisingly fierce. "You're still you, Darren. Your designation doesn't define you."

It's what I've been trying to tell myself, what I've been desperate to believe. Hearing it from her, stated so simply and with such conviction, loosens the knot in my chest.

"That's what I keep telling myself," I say with a wry smile. "Sounds better coming from you."

She laughs. "I could get used to the flattery."

"Only the truth," I assure her.

"And what about the suppressants?" she asks after a moment of consideration. "Will you stay on them forever?"

Another important question. "No," I admit. "They're not meant for long-term use. Eventually, I'll have to..." I trail off, the reality of what that means still uncomfortable to voice.

"Have a heat," she finishes for me, direct as always.

"Yeah." I look down at our joined hands, embarrassment heating my face. It's still strange to discuss this—my biology, my body's new reality—so openly. "Not looking forward to that particular experience."

"I can imagine," she says softly, no judgment in her voice.

"Though there is one upside to going off the suppressants eventually," I say, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Oh?" she asks. "What's that?"

"I'll finally get to smell you fully," I answer, grinning. "That's something."

There's that blush again.

"Good something or bad something?" she asks, a teasing lilt to her voice.

"Definitely good," I assure her, lifting our joined hands to press a kiss to her knuckles. "Though I already know we're compatible in other ways."

Her blush deepens, eyes darkening at the memory of our night together. And the morning after. "Very compatible," she agrees, voice dropping to a register that makes my body respond immediately.

I stand, tugging her gently to her feet and into my arms. She comes willingly, fitting against me like she belongs there.

"I've been thinking about you," I murmur against her hair, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo. "About us."

"Me too," she admits, her hands sliding up my chest to link behind my neck. "Probably more than I should be."

I dip my head, capturing her lips in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly turns hungry. She responds eagerly, pressing closer, her body soft and warm against mine. When we break apart, we're both breathing harder.

"I want you," I say simply, honestly. "Not just because of some biological match. Because you're you."

Her eyes search mine, looking for truth or hesitation. She must find what she's looking for because she nods once, decisive. "Show me."

I don't need to be told twice. I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the couch. The bedroom is too far away for what I have in mind.

I set her down gently, kneeling between her legs as she settles against the cushions. Her oversized sweater has ridden up, revealing simple cotton panties that somehow manage to be sexier than any lingerie I've ever seen.

"Can I taste you?" I ask, hands resting on her thighs, kneading her soft skin.

Her breath catches, pupils dilating. "Yes," she whispers, lifting her hips slightly in invitation.

I hook my fingers in the waistband of her panties, sliding them down her legs with reverent care. She's already wet, her scent making my mouth water.

I start slow, pressing kisses to her inner thighs, working my way higher with deliberate patience even if I want to dive in like a buffet. By the time I reach her center, she's squirming, one hand fisted in my hair.

"Darren," she breathes, a plea and a demand wrapped in my name.

I give her what she wants, what we both want, dragging my tongue through her folds in a long, slow lick that makes her gasp. She tastes incredible, sweet and tangy and uniquely Lexie. I could do this forever, learning every sound she makes, every twitch and shudder.

I focus on her clit, gauging her reactions to find what she likes best. Her thighs tighten around my head, her back arching off the couch as I slip two fingers inside her, curling them to find that spot that makes her cry out.

"Right there," she gasps, her hips moving in rhythm with my fingers and tongue. "Gods, Darren, don't stop."

I have no intention of stopping. Not until she falls apart for me, until she knows without a doubt that this, us, is about more than biology or pack dynamics or scent matches.

Her release builds quickly, her body tensing as she approaches the edge. I double down, working her with fingers and tongue until she shatters, my name a broken cry on her lips as she comes against my mouth.