Page 16 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Aimee

B efore we go any further, I need to plead my case:

I really thought I could be normal about this.

But now, here I am. At Jace’s gym. Alone . Wearing a sports bra I bought specifically for this occasion and booty shorts so tight they might be fused to my DNA.

Because, apparently, I hate peace.

“Looking good,” he says in greeting, grinning as he appears from an office and tosses me a water bottle. “Ready to suffer?”

“I was born ready,” I lie.

“Cute,” he laughs. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

He leads me into the back section of the gym—a private training room separated by a thick glass wall and stocked with every piece of equipment imaginable and no one else in sight.

The floor’s padded, the lights are warm, and there’s a massive mirror along one wall just to make sure you can watch yourself die in high-definition.

The door swings to a close behind us, and as I start slowly getting ready—settling my water bottle down, pulling my hair up into a tight ponytail—Jace is just… Well.

Doing his thing, apparently.

He places a large mat down for us before he starts stretching and smirking.

This is why I don’t do one-night stands, or anything that comes close to them.

It’s one thing playing the big flirt over text message, but in person, it’s totally different.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to behave, or what I’m supposed to do.

Do we speak about it? Do I bring it up, or ignore it entirely?

And does he do this often—hook up with innocent omegas and then walk it off like it’s cardio?

I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. I’m not allowed to be curious about his other hookups, and I’m definitely not allowed to be jealous of a man I’m not even supposed to want.

“I thought we’d start easy,” he says, stretching his huge arms overhead.

His shirt rides up slightly, and I forget the English language for a second.

“Define easy .”

He grins. “Define flexible .”

“Oh my god.”

“Come over here,” he gestures to the mat. “Bend for me, baby.”

“Stop.”

“Never,” he laughs, and that’s the moment I know I’m in trouble. Again . “I’m just messing with you,” he beams. “We’ll start with squats, for your warm up. I’ll watch your form.”

“Oh my god,” I mutter. “This is a porn setup.”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

I shoot him a glare but move toward the mat anyway. I turn toward the mirror, pretending I haven’t already mentally catalogued every inch of his body as I start to slowly bend down, trying to keep my back straight.

I immediately wobble.

“Okay, first of all—” Jace steps in behind me, hands firm on my hips as he corrects my stance, “—you’re arching too much. Unless you’re trying to offer it up like a mating gift, then this needs to be down.”

He presses on my lower back for emphasis, and I grunt in surprise.

“I am an omega,” I mutter, straightening. “It’s in my blood to be bendable and inconvenient.”

“Try again,” he laughs. “Slower this time.”

This time, his hand rests against my lower back while the other ghosts over my thigh. He murmurs corrections, his breath teasing the shell of my ear, and I am not okay.

“Jace,” I say tightly. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

He tilts his head as he meets my eyes through the mirror. “Doing what?”

“You’re weaponizing proximity.”

“You’re literally grinding down in front of me. I’m being professional.”

“You are not.”

He grins. “Want me to be un professional?”

I whip around to face him. “You are a menace.”

“And you’re sweating already. We haven’t even finished your warm up, never mind started circuit training.”

I flip him off, irritated.

He laughs, then winks.

*

Thirty minutes later, I’m on my back on a yoga mat, gasping for breath.

Everything hurts. Muscles I didn’t know existed have betrayed me. My thighs are shaking, my lungs are on strike, and I’m fairly certain I just left my soul somewhere near the kettlebells.

“Dead,” I croak. “I’m legally dead. Notify my emergency contact.”

“C’mon, babe,” Jace drawls, standing over me like a smug, shirtless statue of sin. “You lasted longer than I thought.”

“I’ll put that on my tombstone,” I mutter.

He’s glistening and grinning and not even slightly out of breath, and on top of that, he smells incredible .

Unlike the rest of us responsible, polite, emotionally stable adults, Jace doesn’t scent block.

Not even during a one-on-one session with an omega who’s been vibrating on the edge of feral for the past seven to ten days.

As a result, his scent surrounds me—all warm and sharp and arrogant, layered with sweat and that unholy alpha confidence—and it’s so thick it practically fogs up the mirrors.

He crouches down beside me. “I told you to pace yourself,” he says.

“That’s rich coming from the man who also said, and I quote, ‘lower, lower, hold it , feel the burn,’” I hiss, grabbing the bottle of water and chugging half of it just to avoid looking directly at him.

“You moaned,” he says.

“I did not .”

“You absolutely did.”

“Well, if I did, it was a grunt of suffering, not pleasure.”

He shrugs. “Sounded hot either way.”

I make the mistake of glancing at the mirror, and there we are—me sprawled out on the mat in disarray, him crouched beside me, every inch of his torso flexed and glistening, a teasing smile pulling at his lips.

He looks huge.

His gaze catches mine in the reflection, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

“Up,” he says, standing and offering his hand.

I take it without thinking—mistake number one—and he pulls me up with entirely too much force, mistake number two, because I stumble forward and land right against his chest.

His bare, hot, slightly sweaty chest.

Pheromones slam into me, and I whimper.

“I was gonna offer you a cool-down stretch,” he smirks. “But I don’t think you’re ready for that kind of intimacy.”

My brain short-circuits, and I take a single step back; just enough to preserve the final scraps of my dignity. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m cool .”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

Our faces are inches apart, now. My blockers are barely holding, and his hand is splayed against my lower back.

“This is a terrible idea,” I murmur.

He arches a brow. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I like pretending I have impulse control.”

His smirk could melt steel. “You want me to stop?”

I should say yes. Really, I should.

(I don’t.)

I stay exactly where I am as his mouth hovers a breath from mine.

“That’s what I thought.”

His fingers curl just slightly and guide me until I’m facing away from him and looking directly at the mirror. He steps in close enough that I can feel the heat of his bare chest at my back. One hand settles lightly on my hip, the other on the curve of my neck.

“Bend for me,” he instructs.

My eyes meet his in the reflection. “Jace…”

“You said you’re fine,” he replies, deceptively soft. “Just a cool-down stretch, right?”

I swallow thickly, then shakily move to bend at the waist. He drops to one knee, and his hands glide down my legs, fingertips grazing the backs of my thighs as he adjusts my stance.

He spreads me out wider and lower. “Gotta keep your hips aligned, sweetheart. Don’t want you pulling anything.”

My abdomen clenches tightly.

He straightens again behind me, but it doesn’t change the fact that the heat of him is all-consuming. His palm slides over my lower back and presses down until I arch, until I can feel the hard line of him against my ass.

I gasp, and our eyes lock in the reflection.

“Still doing okay?” he asks, all fake innocence, like I’m not soaked through my shorts and vibrating at a pitch only animals can hear.

“This is—this is not stretching.”

“It is,” he insists. “You’re just distracted.”

I try to glare at him, but I get as far as lifting my head further up before he reaches forward and brushes my hair off my neck, his fingers trailing down the back of my tank top with agonizing slowness.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says. “Every day since that night.”

“I haven’t,” I lie.

“ Liar. I can smell it on you,” he growls. “Even through the blockers. You’re dying for it, and you’re trying so hard to pretend you’re not.”

He pushes my shorts up slightly, fingers slipping under the waistband. He keeps watching my face in the mirror.

“Say stop,” he says again. “And I will.”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His smirk grows sharper and his fingers press in lower, finally dragging across the soaked cotton between my thighs.

“You’re soaked ,” he murmurs. “And you’re still trying to act like you’re not mine?”

I moan, and my knees buckle. He catches me easily, one strong arm wrapping around my waist, the other already sliding between my thighs.

“ Fuck ,” he mutters. “I love the way you try to pretend you're not desperate.”

I should stop this. I should push him away. After all, we're in his place of work.

Instead, I grind back against him, chasing the pressure and panting.

“That’s a good girl,” he says, mouth at my ear, fingers finally slipping past the edge of my shorts. “Now let’s see if I can make you scream my name louder than the first time.”

Jace drops to his knees behind me, his bare chest flushed and gleaming with sweat, his darkened eyes locked on mine through the reflection. He plants his palms on the insides of my thighs and eases them open, spreading my legs wider.

“Jace,” I gasp, apparently unable to form a coherent sentence.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his eyes still meeting mine through the mirror. “You gonna beg?”

I don’t answer. I'm utterly mesmorized as I watch him lean in close and moan against the seam of my shorts.

I swear I forget how to breathe as he presses his mouth right there, his hot breath soaking through the damp fabric. I nearly collapse forward again.

“Sweet fucking Omega,” he mutters. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”