Page 29 of Fourth Base with the Alpha

“Dumpling is in the contract,” I remind her. “So you and I are stuck with it, Cupcake.”

She mimes gagging when I call her that. Which makes me all the more determined to call her it. She is a walking cupcake after all. The kind with a fuck load of icing and probably sugar sprinkles too. The kind that gives you a toothache. The kind it’s too tempting to sink your teeth into anyway.

“Are you wanting to go home?” she asks me.

Honestly, at this point I’d probably find an excuse to leave, even risking Kim’s anger to do it. My days of partying hard are long gone.

But tonight, if it means spending more time wallowing in this omega’s sweet scent, in her company, hell I’ll grin and bear it.

“Not yet.”

“So … do you want to dance?”

I peer over at the dance floor where several couples and small groups are swaying on the spot or throwing out dramatic shapes.

“I don’t really dance.”

“Bullshit,” the omega says, poking me again. “I’ve seen the music videos. You’re pretty nifty on your feet.” She peers down towards my toes. “And considering the size of your feet that can’t be easy.”

My feet are big and compared to her teensy tiny ones, they look like clown’s.

“Come on,” she says, “I’m going to dance. It’s good for the soul. Are you coming or not?”

She spins around on those heels that are giving me serious new kinks, and skips towards the dance floor.

I have no choice but to follow. Not if I don’t want every sleazy dude in here to start hitting on my fake-girlfriend. I’m not blind to the way some are eyeing her up like she’s some unattended dessert they’d like to steal.

I plod along behind her and when we reach the dancefloor, we squeeze into a gap between the dancers.

Dancing wasn’t in the contract. Nor the instructions she sent me by text. So what the hell am I meant to do?

“Do you know any steps?” she asks.

“Only a few.”

“Do you know how to salsa?”

I nod. I may have two left feet but I also know music. I understand it, can read a beat and how to move to it.

Salsa’s one of the easiest. I listen to the beat of the piece playing and she’s right.

Salsa.

I peer around, knowing there are people watching us, guessing some asshole will film this and upload it to the internet before I’ve barely stepped towards her.

But fuck it, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes sparkling with excitement.

I offer her my hand and she steps forward, taking my hand in hers and resting her other on my shoulder. Layla wasn’t kidding about the height mismatch, but with her heels and a bend in my knees we make it work and it gives me the excuse to grip that waist of hers again.

Her dress is made from some kind of silk and it’s soft and slippery under my palms, revealing the shape of her. The perfect shape of her.

Together, we find the beat and move and soon she’s laughing and breathless and I’m spinning her around and drawing her in close.

And I don’t give a shit anymore if anyone’s watching because when the hell was the last time I danced like this? When the hell did I last make someone laugh like this?

I don’t care if it’s fake. If it’s all for show. My heart hammers in my chest in a way it hasn’t done since those early concerts of ours. Fuck, I feel high.

“You’re such a liar,” she says, as I twist her around, crossing our arms over her chest and bringing her flush against my body. “You can dance.”