Page 8 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

Aimee

B y the time we get to Jace’s SUV, I’m sweaty, over-caffeinated, and clinging to what’s left of my sanity.

My thighs hurt. My soul hurts.

And my ovaries are plotting a coup.

Jace is still shirtless. He tosses his towel in the back of the SUV, and his biceps flex with such shameless drama it might as well be choreographed.

It’s absurd . Offensive . Possibly illegal .

I get an unfiltered, up-close view of Abs: The Musical and nearly black out from the sheer visual impact.

(If the government wants to microchip people, they should use this man’s torso as the test site. I’d volunteer.)

“Thanks,” I mutter, trying to get in gracefully. I fail spectacularly and sort of tip sideways into the seat.

Jace catches the edge of the door and leans one arm against the roof, peering down at me with an expression so smug it should come with a warning label. His curls are damp and pushed back, and his smile is nothing short of reckless.

“That was fun,” he says, his tone all casual as though he hasn’t just spent the last couple of hours testing the very limits of public decency and my willpower.

He’s close. Too close. His eyes are sun-warmed green, his scent’s everywhere , and I suddenly forget all my good decisions and every red flag I’ve ever studied.

“It was,” I admit. “Against all odds.”

“You gonna kiss me now?”

“No.” ( Yes .)

I force a grin instead, teeth catching my lower lip. “I’m going to think about it for two to five business hours and then write about it in my definitely-real scent journal.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Hope you describe the lighting. It really brought out my heroic side.”

I’m trying to stay professional. Truly. I am. I’m supposed to be gathering intel and staying detached, wrecking Wes’s life with words , not with orgasms.

But Jace is standing there like a fucking fever dream; broad, golden and playful as hell, and I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t plan for him .

“I’m serious,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon.”

I swallow. “You have?”

“Mmhmm.” His fingers drum lightly against the roof of the SUV. “Especially when you bent over the fruit stand.”

“That was accidental,” I say too quickly.

“Didn’t look like an accident,” he says. “Looked like intent. Looked like trouble.”

I blink up at him, my pulse hammering in places that should not be awake right now.

“Okay,” I whisper.

His whole expression changes—less smirk, more tension; almost as though he’s checking to see if I mean it.

“Yeah?” he asks.

I nod, then smile. “Yeah.”

The kiss is instant—and filthy . There’s no slow build, no tentative lean-in. His mouth is on mine as his hand slides into my hair, the other braced on the frame of the SUV, and I lose track of air and thought and literally everything except him .

I fist his jeans as our mouth clash, dragging him in closer by the waistband. He groans against my mouth as he tilts my head, deepening the kiss even more. It’s heat and hunger and instinct and the worst idea I’ve had all week; and god, I can’t stop .

Next thing I know, I’m being lifted into the back seat. It’s a tangle of limbs, swearing, and dignity loss.

“Are we—oh my god—we’re doing this?” I gasp, my legs wrapping around him out of sheer survival.

“Only if you want to,” he says, breath hot on my jaw. “Say stop, and I stop.”

“I hate how respectful that is,” I mutter.

“File a complaint later.”

His hands slide under my dress, and I realize instantly that I’ve made a terrible mistake wearing something this easy to peel. He nudges the fabric higher, crowding into my space.

“You smell like trouble.”

Boy, you have no idea.

“And you smell like... testosterone and bad decisions,” I pant. “So.”

He grins and bites my earlobe. “Perfect match, then.”

I groan—because of the bite, because of the banter, because I’m basically vibrating out of my skin.

“I don’t usually do this,” I whisper, even as I hook my fingers in his belt loop.

“Do what?”

“Let gym rats with commitment issues get to second base in a car park.”

He laughs, low and pleased. “You’re not even at second base, baby.”

Baby.

Baby .

My clit throbs.

“Don’t call me baby,” I snap, breathless.

“Noted,” he says, absolutely not noting it. “What should I call you while I’m making you come?”

I go momentarily blind.

He grinds against me, cock hard behind his zipper, before one of his huge hands slips beneath my panties.

“You’re drenched,” he groans.

“And you’re overdressed.”

His belt buckle clinks as his fingers circle my clit, and I swear, I nearly levitate.

“Holy shit,” I gasp. “What the hell is happening to me?”

“Instinct.” He nips my throat. “Suppressed or not, your body knows .”

“In that case,” I pant, hips rocking, “my body’s a traitor.”

He grins as he rubs slow, maddening circles over me. “Your body’s perfect .”

And that’s when I die. Or climax. Honestly, it’s unclear.

His fingers slide inside, and I slap a hand over my mouth. “ Jesus ,” I hiss.

“Yeah?” Jace leans in. “Is that the name you’re gonna moan, or are you sticking with mine?”

“Shut up ,” I gasp, clutching tightly to his thick forearm.

He curls his fingers just right, and my head hits the back of the seat as everything goes white.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, breath hot against my throat. “So fucking pretty like this. You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me, do you, Omega?”

“I—” I try, but what comes out is a moan and his name, breathless and unhinged: “Jace…”

That sound—his name on my lips—does something to him. His pupils blow wide, and he drags me forward, flipping me onto his lap so that I end up straddling him; thighs shaking, dress bunched at my waist, slick heat pressed against the thick length of his cock through the denim.

He pauses, green eyes locked on mine, hands anchored at my hips.

“You want this?”

I hesitate.

“…Say it, Aimee.”

My thighs twitch. “I want this,” I whisper. “I need it.”

One of his hands tightens on my hip while the other slides down to cup the back of my thigh, lifting it higher around him.

“Whatever you want, baby.”

(That word again. That dangerous, forbidden, wreck-me-on-sight word. I don’t survive it any better this time.)

His cock nudges where I’m soaked and throbbing, heavy and hot and poised. My whole body arches in response, and he swears under his breath.

“ Fuck . You feel— god , Aimee.”

Then he shifts his weight, fumbles his jeans lower, and lines up against my entrance. I brace for it, but nothing prepares me for the slow, thick press of him sliding in.

“Oh my—”

My voice breaks into a moan as he pushes deeper, all the way in with one long stroke that steals the air from my lungs. My back arches as pleasure detonates low in my belly.

“You okay?” he pants.

I nod. Violently .

Words are gone. My brain’s been scrambled.

“That was…” I exhale, trembling. “A lot.”

“You’re telling me. You’re tight as fuck,” he says. “You were made to take me, weren’t you?”

My cunt clenches around him in agreement.

“Stop talking,” I gasp, nails in his shoulders. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” He kisses me again, rough and reverent, before rocking his hips up into me. “You are. I feel it. You feel it. I can smell it .”

“Do not —” I arch with the next thrust. “—talk about my scent.”

“Why not, sweetheart?” He grins against my jaw. “I can smell everything . You’re dripping for me. Blockers aren’t hiding shit.”

“ Jace .”

“What?” he laughs. “You want me to pretend I don’t know what you need? That your cunt isn’t begging for it?”

“Jace,” I say again, my teeth clenched.

He rolls his hips up, up, up , and my whole body jolts.

“You’re clenching like you want me to knot you.”

“I don’t knot on the first date,” I tell him.

“Me neither,” he pants. “Let’s call this a post-date demonstration.”

I choke on a laugh and a moan rolled into one. “You’re deranged.”

“You’re wet,” he counters. “Wet and wrecked. Sweet little Omega pretending this isn’t the best thing you’ve ever felt.”

“I’m not exactly purring,” I counter, though it’s taking everything in me not to.

He grins again, nipping my jaw. “You’re close .”

He shifts the angle, moving us so that I'm lay out on my back against the seats while he hovers over me, and I swear I see stars.

“ Fuck —you keep getting tighter,” he says. “So sweet. So good for me.”

“Shut up .”

He kisses me then, tongue teasing and hands rough. One cups my neck while the other keeps my thighs spread wide, and he starts to fuck me properly; his thrusts relentless, hips snapping as though he’s got something to prove.

“This how you wanted it?” he pants. “All filthy and full in the back of my SUV?”

I can’t speak. The sounds we’re making—the wet slap of skin, the grind of leather, the obscene squelch of slick—are enough to get us arrested on multiple charges.

“You’re letting me take you like this,” he growls, breath ragged. “Letting me feel how perfect you are around my cock.”

I claw at his back, unable to answer with anything coherent as I clench tightly around him.

“You feel it too,” he pants, insistent. “You don’t wanna admit it, but I know you feel it.”

“I’m—” I gasp. “Oh my god—I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” he groans, mouth on my neck. “Come on, pretty girl. Let me feel you fall apart.”

He pinches my clit—just right—and I detonate. Everything shatters as my body locks, cunt fluttering, thighs squeezing around his waist. I cry out into his shoulder, barely conscious, barely coherent.

“Fuck, yes ,” he snarls.

His hips jerk, then stop cold, and his whole body trembles with restraint.

“I can’t—” he groans, pulling out fast, voice wrecked. “Can’t knot you, baby.”

My brain’s still buffering when he fists his cock at the base, working it with a few rough strokes. He groans my name as he spills across his hand and the tops of my thighs, and his musky alpha scent hits instantly.

I clench instinctively around nothing—

And then everything stills.

Our breathing’s loud. The windows are fogged. My dress is bunched under my ribs like a belt of shame. My thighs make a very specific noise against the leather when I shift, and somewhere outside, a seagull screams.

I’m dripping, dazed, and I’ve just had the best orgasm of my life with a man who thinks meal prep means seven containers of grilled chicken.

Still, I stay quiet. Jace doesn’t say anything either. He practically drapes himself over me, breath hot against my throat, lips lazy near my jaw. One of his hands splays possessively across my stomach, and that is what does it.

I clear my throat, then wiggle slightly.

Bad idea.

“So,” I manage, tone all fake-casual and post-orgasmic horror. “Wanna go get a gluten-free muffin?”

He huffs a laugh, then kisses me just beneath my jaw. “Only if you let me feed it to you.”

“Oh my god.” I shove at him, weak and unconvincing. “You’re genuinely unwell.”

“Probably,” he says, smug as sin. “But you’re into it.”

I bury my face in his shoulder and groan.

He’s not wrong, and that’s the most terrifying part.