Page 50

Callum

T he moment she says "please," something primal and possessive roars to life in my chest.

Lila stands before us in that emerald dress that probably costs more than my truck, hair swept up to reveal the elegant line of her neck, makeup applied with professional precision. She looks like a goddess, like something too perfect to touch.

But underneath all that polished glamour, I can smell her uncertainty. The way the expensive perfume and styling products have masked her natural scent, turned her into someone performing rather than someone being.

That's not my omega. My omega smells like green apples and confidence, like someone who knows exactly where she belongs.

"Turn around," I say quietly, my voice rougher than intended.

She obeys without question, presenting her back to me. The dress has a hidden zipper, probably cost extra for the seamless design. My hands are steady as I work it down just enough to bare her shoulders, careful not to disturb the fabric.

"Callum," she breathes, and there it is—the first hint of her real scent breaking through the artificial layers.

"That's better," I murmur, pressing a kiss to the base of her neck. "Starting to smell like yourself again."

Julian moves to steady her from the front, his hands settling on her waist with reverent care. Dean positions himself at her side, ready to support whatever we need. We've learned to work together like this, anticipating each other's movements, focused entirely on her pleasure.

"We don't have much time," Julian says, glancing at his watch with characteristic precision. "Twenty minutes before we need to leave."

"Don't need much time," I reply, my hands skimming up her sides beneath the loosened dress. "Just need to remind our girl who she belongs to."

The possessive words make her shiver, and I catch the spike in her scent that means she's already getting slick for us. Good. This is exactly what she needs. Not complicated, not time-consuming, just proof that regardless of what world we're in, she's ours.

"Sit," I instruct, guiding her to the edge of the hotel's massive bed. The emerald silk pools around her as she settles, the dress still mostly in place but giving me access to what I need.

"Your makeup," Dean starts, but I'm already shaking my head.

"Won't touch her face," I promise, dropping to my knees between her legs. "Just need to get my mouth on her."

The crude words make her whimper, her thighs falling open instinctively. She's wearing delicate lace underwear that probably came from some ridiculously expensive boutique, but I don't have patience for delicate right now.

I hook my fingers in the waistband and look up at her. "Lift up, sweetheart."

She raises her hips without hesitation, trusting me completely. The scrap of lace disappears into my jacket pocket. She can have it back later if she wants, but right now I need her bare and open for me.

"Sweetheart," Dean breathes, his voice tight with want as he takes in the sight of her spread before us. "Look at you."

She's perfect like this, still dressed for cameras but completely exposed where it matters, silk draped carefully to avoid wrinkles while her pussy glistens with arousal. The contrast between elegant sophistication and raw need makes my cock throb against my tuxedo pants.

But this isn't about me. This is about reminding her who she is beneath all the performance.

I lean forward and drag my tongue through her folds, slow and deliberate. The taste of her explodes across my palate, sweet and perfect and purely Lila. Her back arches with a broken cry, hands flying to Dean's shoulders for support.

"Quiet," I murmur against her clit, the vibration making her shudder. "Don't want to mess up that pretty lipstick by screaming."

The challenge in my voice makes her bite her lip, trying to contain the sounds I'm drawing from her. Julian's hands find her breasts through the dress, careful not to disturb the neckline but providing the additional stimulation I know she craves.

I work her with the same attention to detail I bring to any important project. I know her body now, know exactly how much pressure she likes, what angle makes her see stars. Build her up slow and steady, bringing her right to the edge before backing off.

"Please," she gasps when I deny her the third time, her hips trying to chase my mouth. "Callum, please, I need?—"

"What do you need?" Julian asks, his voice rough with restraint.

"I need to come," she breaks, her careful composure finally cracking. "Please, I need to remember who I belong to."

Those words hit me like a physical blow. She's not just asking for release. She's asking for reassurance, for proof that beneath all the glamour and performance, she's still ours.

"Tell us," I growl against her wet heat. "Tell us who you belong to."

"You," she sobs, her control completely shattered now. "All of you. I'm yours, completely yours."

"That's right," Dean murmurs, his hand gentle in her hair. "Our omega. Our perfect Lila."

I seal my lips around her clit and suck hard, my tongue working in steady circles while Julian's fingers find her nipples through the silk. The combination of sensations sends her flying over the edge with a muffled scream, her whole body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash through her.

I work her through every aftershock, gentling my touch as she comes down but not stopping until she's boneless and shaking. When I finally pull back, her eyes are glazed with satisfaction and her scent has shifted to something rich and content, purely her, no artificial enhancements needed.

"Better?" I ask, carefully rearranging the dress to ensure everything looks exactly as it did before.

"Much better," she breathes, her smile soft and genuine. "I remember exactly who I am now."

"And who's that?" Dean asks with gentle humor, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

"Yours," she says simply, looking at each of us in turn. "Completely, utterly yours. No matter what world we're in."

The certainty in her voice, the way she melts against me like she's exactly where she belongs, makes something settle in my chest that I didn't realize was missing. She's not performing anymore, not trying to be what she thinks we want. She's just Lila—our Lila—confident in her place with us.

"Good," I say, rising to press a kiss to her forehead. "Because we're not letting you forget again."

Julian produces a small compact mirror with characteristic foresight, helping her check that her lipstick survived our attentions. Dean smooths any wrinkles from her dress while I adjust my bow tie and try to ignore the way my cock is straining against my pants.

Twenty minutes later, when we're walking toward the elevator that will take us down to the waiting car and cameras and all the circus of her old world, she moves with confidence.

Her scent wraps around us like a claim, green apples and white musk and satisfaction, announcing to anyone with a functioning nose exactly who she belongs to.

"Ready?" she asks as the elevator doors open.

"Ready," we confirm in unison.

Because now we all know exactly where we stand. She's ours, we're hers, and after tonight we never have to choose between worlds again.

We'll just have ours. Perfect and imperfect and entirely our own.

Together.