Page 6 of Happy Halloween, Omega

EveryHalloween,Igeta fright.

I must be messed up, ’cause I’m excited to find out what it will be this year.

I’m wearing my Catwoman outfit – the same one from last year. I’ve justified wearing the same costume two years in a row because it cost me a buttload. It’s a lie. I have a really cool Morticia Addams from The Addams Family replica dress hanging in my closet. I’m Catwoman again because I want him to recognize me. I wonder if he’ll wear his skeleton costume. My mystery-loving, secret-knowing Ghost.

I arrive at the club later than usual. Excited faces fill the streets as they head towards the same destination. I join the throng of people waiting to enter the club, my eyes scanning shrewdly for a glimpse of a skull mask. The line quickly moves and soon I’m inside.

The pulsating music ripples through the humid air, and my nose fills with the sour smell of sweat and alcohol. The huge dance floor quivers beneath the stomping feet of lively costumed dancers. It’s an ocean of chaotic anonymity and perfect for what I need. Despite my mission, Halloween is still the one night of the year I can let go and be free. So I disappear into the crowd, allowing myself to meld into its wild embrace.

The deep bass thrums through me as I move. The heat of the sweaty bodies is electrifying and I come alive. But I can’t let go completely. Not yet. I’m constantly searching the crowd for a tall, haunting form. I still haven’t quite figured out what I’ll do if I find him.

Eventually, after what feels like hours of hunting, I lose myself to the thumping baseline.

I should have realized it’s when he’d strike.

A large, warm hand wraps around my waist and my heart clenches in panic, but I don’t pull away.

It’s him. I know without a doubt.

I’m pulled against a firm, muscular chest, and my body reacts instantly. My nipples pebble and my pussy throbs. Tilting my head back to look at him over my shoulder, I gasp at how close his face is. The white contours of the skull mask accentuate the sharp planes of his exposed features and make the dark depths of his eyes appear endless.

I should be terrified that he’s touching me with an intimate familiarity. Yet, I’m not afraid. I know what murderous intent feels like, and this isn’t it. This is a delicious danger of a different kind. I resume dancing, swaying my hips slowly, and he moves with me. I can feel his cock pressed against my ass through our clothing. He’s rock hard.

“You came back.” His voice is a low growl which vibrates through his chest. I detect a hint of a lilting country accent, and I store it away in my mental case file. He’s from somewhere rural.

I don’t respond, waiting to see what other clues he’ll drop unbidden, and continue dancing against him, picking up the pace to match the music. My heart is racing and I can’t stop the satisfied smile spreading across my face.

My Ghost found me.

He leans down, his mouth close to my ear. “Did my little kitty want to get caught?”

I suspect he’s trying to bait me into talking. I should stick to the plan… but he’s pulled my metaphorical tail, and I bite. Turning in his embrace, I poke his chest with my claw.

“I’m not a kitty, I’m Catwoman,” I protest, my tone firm despite the ridiculous words.

A flicker of amusement crosses his face, almost imperceptibly beneath the mask and paint, and I take careful note. Interesting. He has a sense of humor. Good to know.

“My mistake, Miss Berry.”

I lick my lips to conceal my pleasure with his accurate reference. Why is it so hot that he knows exactly who I’m dressed as? I wonder if he appreciates the effort it took to create it.

His grip on my waist tightens, pulling me closer.

“Do you know whoIam?“ His words should be drowned out by the rave, but I hear him clearly as if we were in an empty room together. In fact, all of my senses feel heightened.

He’s not asking about his costume.

I shake my head.

Frown lines appear at the sides of his mouth as if he’s disappointed. “Are you sure?”

He seems to think Ishouldrecognize him. I’m almost certain I’d remember crossing paths with someone who sets my skin alight so deliciously. It’s another clue to add to my list. I need to investigate where we might have crossed paths.

I eventually shrug. “You’re my Ghost.”

He flashes his teeth in a specter of a smile, and it makes my toes curl in my boots. Such a deceptively simple expression has a myriad of complex implications.

Alphas don’t expose their teeth to Omegas. It’s an etiquette to protect Omegas from feeling intimidated or frightened. After all, it’s not a smart strategy for a predator to flash teeth at prey. Especially when you’re trying to convince your prey you won’t bite if they come sit on your dick. Which is a lie. They totally will.