Page 30 of Omega's Fever

Kellen stares straight ahead, jaw tight. The orange fabric does nothing to hide his arousal. He’s hard, obviously so, and my mouth goes dry. I think of how he slid inside me inch by delicious inch.

Stop. Drive. Focus on the road.

Traffic crawls through downtown. By the time I pull into my building’s garage, sweat soaks through my shirt and my pants are soaked through.

My doorman does a double-take when we enter the lobby. His gaze travels from Kellen’s jumpsuit to his face to the monitoring device visible at his ankle.

“Everything alright, Mr. Warren?”

“Yes. This is a client.”

He nods slowly, not completely convinced. The elevator ride to the third floor might be the longest three minutes of my life. Kellen takes up too much space. Not just physically, though there’s not a great deal of space for the both of us in the small space. His presence fills every inch.

My hands shake so badly it takes three tries to get my key in the lock. I’m aware of Kellen’s eyes on them, his slight frown. He doesn’t comment.

The door swings open to reveal my apartment. I’ve carefully picked out every piece of furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows highlight a view of the park opposite. I’ve decorated in shades of blue and white.

Blue has always been my favorite color. I’ve never understood how it isn’t everyone’s. Why wouldn’t you want your world to look like the sky on a summer’s day? I have original art on the walls, picked out from galleries or flea markets or cafes over the years. It’s all stuff that I like.

Growing up, I never had a choice in how my room looked. My uncle was very particular about everything. I’m the same. I suppose I get that from his side of the family, but it meant that my bedroom at his house always felt like the spare room. It never felt like mine.

Now, I’ve decorated exactly the way I want it to be. I don’t have a lot of people over. It’s always felt intrusive to have another person here. My apartment is my space. It’s personal. And now this giant, very attractive man is in my personal space.

Kellen steps inside slowly, taking it all in and suddenly I’m desperate to know what he thinks. Does he like it? Does he like me?

Oh no. I’m not starting that.

Something about Kellen Hayes strips everything away. I’ve built up so much confidence, fought so hard to be independent and now all I can think about is worry about whether he likes me or not. It makes me feel like I’m fifteen again.

Professional. Confident. Competent. That’s my mantra. None of them feel very relevant right now.

I’m very aware that we are completely alone. There is nothing stopping him from taking the three steps between us and bending me over the sofa.

“Would you like something to drink?” The words tumble out too fast. “Coffee? Tea? Water? I have sparkling and still. Or juice. Orange juice. Apple. I think there’s cranberry...”

“No, thank you.”

They’re Kellen’s first words since he spoke up asking Melkham to remove me as his lawyer. His voice rolls through me. I have to lock my knees to keep standing.

“Right. Okay. Let me show you around.” I gesture vaguely at my open plan apartment. “Bathroom’s through there. Kitchen obviously,” I say waving at the open space. “Living room. The couch pulls out into a bed. It’s actually quite comfortable. I’vefallen asleep on it a few times.”

I know I’m babbling. It’s what I do when I’m nervous. You’d think years of law school would have knocked that out of me but law school taught me to face the opposition, not six-foot something of pure hotness.

“Are you hungry? I can order something. Thai? Chinese? There’s an excellent Italian place that delivers. Or pizza. Everyone likes pizza, right? Unless you’re lactose intolerant. Are you lactose intolerant?”

Oh no, stop babbling. For the love of god, Milo. Stop.

Kellen just watches me, dark eyes unreadable. I take a deep breath and try to get practical. He’s going to be here for a few weeks at least and he’s brought nothing with him. Not an overnight bag or even a change of clothes. I duck into the bathroom. The vanity yields a spare toothbrush, still in its packaging. I find a spare towel. I bring them both out and put them on the sofa bed.

“You need clothes.”

I grab my laptop, sink onto the far end of the couch and pull up a same-day delivery site. Kellen hasn’t moved from just inside the door.

“What size...” I look at him. Really look. Broad shoulders, thick chest, arms that strain against the jumpsuit’s fabric. “Extra large? Double extra?”

“Depends on the brand.”

Four more words. We’re having a conversation. Sort of.