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JAMIE

“Jamie!”

Since the door to my boss’s office was ajar, his shout cut through the hallways like an air horn. Our receptionist, who’d been leaning on my desk to pry the latest gossip from me, winced and backed out of the room.

“Jamie? Where the fuck are you?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m coming!” I rounded my desk and ambled to the door. I knew my boss well enough to recognize it wasn’t a real emergency. He was probably looking for something he had right in front of his nose.

Pushing the door open, I found him pacing his top-floor corner office like a caged lion. I pasted on my loveliest smile.

“How can I help you, sir?”

Most people had only met the imposing, aloof Morton Hartley, the green-tech tycoon and most influential business figure in the city.

I flattered myself thinking I was the only one who ever saw this version of him—adorably flustered and distracted, grabbing his hair with both hands.

He stared at the mess on his desk with wild eyes.

“Where’s the damned report? It was right here! I just read the fucking thing. Where is it?”

I moved a gray folder that covered a stack of papers. “Here.”

“Dammit.” He snatched the papers and plonked into his chair, paging through the bundle. “You and your X-ray vision. It’s like you’re a cyborg or something.”

“If I were, I’d be doing your job, getting your salary, and you’d be my assistant. You’d be terrible at it. I’d fire you within a week.”

“Luckily, it’s the other way around. Now shush. I need to double-check something.”

Letting him read in silence, I shuffled around folders and printouts, mitigating the chaos he’d created while searching for the document.

Mr. Hartley could be impeccably organized, but sometimes, when stressed and frustrated, he’d get tunnel vision and miss the obvious.

He just needed someone to talk him off the ledge now and then.

The conference and the set of meetings on the West Coast were the most important events of the year, and with the upcoming elections, I couldn’t imagine the pressure he was facing.

He read, turned a page, huffed, and scribbled something into one of his many notebooks. He preferred pen and paper—he said it helped him think—and then he needed me to digitize his messy notes. I didn’t mind. I found his scribbles fascinating.

“What’s the time?” he asked, not lifting his gaze from the papers.

“Half past four.”

Another angry huff. “I’m not ready, Jamie. This will be a disaster.”

“It won’t. You’re always ready. Besides, you still have four days on the train to prepare.”

Four fucking days locked up in a train car.

Who would prefer ninety-six hours on a train, one way, to a six-hour flight?

Complete maniacs! And my boss. Six years ago, Mr. Hartley publicly vowed never to fly in a fossil-fuel-powered aircraft again.

He kept his word. He took a train everywhere he could, and he’d even freaking sailed to London and back once.

Luckily, that was before I started working for him—I would have strongly objected to those two weeks of seasickness.

He turned another page, frowning. “I should wrap up soon since we’re leaving early tomorrow.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to come to your place and pack your suitcase.” I was only half kidding. The last time we went to a conference, he forgot spare socks and underwear, and I had to run and buy them for him so he wouldn’t have to give a keynote speech commando.

He looked up and narrowed his eyes at me. “That fiancé of yours doesn’t spank you often enough.”

“We broke up a month ago,” I said brightly.

His expression froze. He gaped at me, looking completely bewildered. Poor man. It hadn’t been my intention to make him feel awkward. I hurried to change the subject.

“I’m sure HR would love to hear about your spanking suggestion. We could make it a thing. Weekly spankings every Monday. It might be the stress relief we all need.”

Mr. Hartley let out a tense laugh. “Smartass.” Shaking his head, he returned his attention to his papers. He reshuffled them as if he’d forgotten why he was holding them. His hair was sticking out in all directions, and his tie was askew. He looked cute when he was frazzled.

“It’s going to go great,” I told him quietly.

He gave the report a brisk nod. “The plan is brilliant, and the financing well thought through. I just have to convince a bunch of self-serving politicians to put their egos aside for one minute.”

“You’re a genius. It’s in everybody’s best interest to listen to you.”

Mr. Hartley sighed. “People are stupid, Jamie.”

I shrugged. “Some of them, maybe. You’re a misanthrope. Why are you trying to save the planet again? So all the stupid people can keep destroying it?”

He grabbed a pen and made another note while grumbling, “God complex, I guess.”

I chuckled. I loved my boss’s self-deprecating humor.

Mr. Hartley set the report aside and glanced up at me. “Sorry about the breakup with… What was his name? Brian?”

“Liam. And thank you. It wasn’t meant to be.”

He looked as if he wanted to ask something else but remained quiet.

“I’m leaving in fifteen minutes, sir. Do you need anything else from me today?”

“You’re leaving already?”

“Yes. I told you on Tuesday. I have a doctor’s appointment. It’s on the calendar.”

His eyes widened. “Are you sick?”

I surely hoped not. “Just a regular checkup,” I lied. He didn’t need to know the juicy details. “I want to get it done before we leave for the West Coast.”

“Good. Then go.” He gestured toward the door. “Shoo. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, sir. Nine thirty.”

“I’ll be there.”

The train left at nine forty-five, but it was always safer to give my boss some margin.

His ability to focus was legendary, but when he focused on saving the future of mankind, some things on the periphery slipped his notice.

He could easily forget about insignificant details like food, proper clothes, or clocks.

I’d call him in the morning to check on him.

At the omega health clinic, I faced a fatherly doctor.

“At least one in ten omegas has spontaneous lactation. Yours is more intense than average but not that uncommon. Had you lived in the previous century, you could have been a sought-after nanny,” he joked.

I smirked. I did work kind of as a nanny, except my charge was a grown-ass man who didn’t necessarily need nursing.

“It’s not dangerous?”

“No. I’ve run all the tests I could, and I can assure you that you’re healthy. There are some aspects of your hormonal discrepancy that you need to be aware of, though.”

“Such as?”

“Most omegas with your condition have an augmented libido and fertility in addition to the spontaneous lactation. The increased discharge of slick you’ve been experiencing is a part of that.

Your heats will be irregular and intense, with nearly one hundred percent chance of conception unless you use contraceptives. ”

“Will I have heats more often?”

“That’s hard to say. Your cycle will vary.”

“I have a demanding job, doctor. I need to have a modicum of control over my life.”

“When was your last?”

“Seven months ago. It was strong, but I used an intrauterine contraceptive.”

“The quick test shows no signs of an upcoming heat yet. I’ve sent your bloodwork to another lab that could give us a more accurate prediction. We should have the results in a few days. I’ll email you the report when it arrives.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll also send you some links to reliable sources about your condition, and we can do a regular checkup every three months.

It’s good to trace your cycle—like you said, you need a modicum of control over your life.

If we monitor your hormonal levels, we can, with time, predict your heats accurately. ”

“That would be great.”

“About the discomfort you’re experiencing. There are some techniques lactating omegas use to find relief.”

I perked up. “Yes, please. The pressure in my pectorals gets painful. Massages under a warm shower help, but I can’t spend an hour in the bathroom twice every day.”

“I understand. See, some omegas learn various, um, milking techniques. There are videos online about that sort of thing. But as you say, it’s strenuous and time-consuming. You can ask a sexual partner to relieve you.”

I blinked. “Like… suck it out?”

The doctor flashed me a mischievous look. “I hear it’s a pleasant practice.”

“I’m currently single,” I admitted, shifting in my chair. The idea of letting an alpha suck the milk from my pecs during sex was a little disturbing. But intriguing too.

“There are devices you can use. Check out the pharmacy downstairs. They’re specialized in reproductive health.”

I left the clinic in a significantly better mood.

That morning, I had been worrying about some mysterious illness, but there was nothing wrong with me.

In the past, my condition was even considered desirable since my body was made to get pregnant as often as possible and nurse a heap of kids.

Nature missed their opportunity with me, though, because with my career, I barely had time for a relationship, let alone kids.

Liam had demanded I quit. I’d refused. So, here I was—a twenty-three-year-old omega with an overly slick hole, a greedy womb, and tits full of milk. Ripe but single.

I could get maudlin about it, or I could enjoy the perks.

After a quick detour to the pharmacy, I took a cab to my apartment and began sorting through what I’d need during the upcoming couple of weeks.

Suits, shirts, ties, and other business apparel were a given.

Even though it was a work trip, I wanted to have fun too.

I threw in my favorite lingerie set and a couple of my prettiest jock straps.