Page 35 of Omega's Formula

I watch the clock and try to remember who I was before this morning before I learned what Nolan tastes like and before I memorized the exact pitch of his moans, the way his back arches, the specific shade of furious want in his eyes when he’s about to come.

I was taken by surprise. That’s all it was. I wasn’t prepared for him to be standing there half-naked and dripping wet, all that golden skin on display, looking at me like he wanted to fight me and fuck me in equal measure. Anyone would have lost control.

Anyone would have shoved him against the wall and kissed him until neither of them could breathe.

Anyone would have dropped to their knees on the hardwood floor and—

Stop.

I press my palm flat against the table and focus on breathing. In and out. I’m a CEO. I’m a professional. I’m an alpha who has never, not once in his life, behaved the way I behaved this morning.

The meeting ends eventually. I escape to my office and stand at the window staring at the city below.

I think about the kind of omega I always imagined. The omega I want is someone submissive and respectful. Someone who will keep my home and bear my children. He’d be someone who would respect me and defer to me, the way nature intended.

Not someone who wears jeans to his own wedding. Not someone who drips water all over my floor while standing naked in my hallway. Not someone who looks at me like I’m the worst person he’s ever met and then kisses me like he’s trying to crawl inside my skin.

My phone buzzes. I glance to see a reminder from the compliance app, telling me that our ridiculous compliance requirements beings at 6pm tonight.

I have to go back soon and when I go back, I’m not going to have the excuse of having a meeting to escape to. The terms of our agreement with the Bureau are clear. We’re allowed short windows away from each other, nominally agreed to allow Nolan to visit his sister. They’re not meant for me, although there is no reason I can’t take advantage.

I need to spend the afternoon with my personal assistant, rescheduling everything I can for the next two weeks. I don’t have a separate office at the apartment. There’s just the kitchen,bathroom, living room and bedroom. I don’t want to do business sitting on the sofa with my laptop on my lap and certainly not for two weeks in a row.

My reflection stares back at me from the glass. Perfect suit. Perfect posture. Every hair back in place. I don’t look like the absolute mess that I feel.

The reflection doesn’t show the scratches down my back. It doesn’t show the way my hands shake when I think about touching him again.

I sigh and turn away from the window and get on with the business of shutting myself away from everything I have worked for.

I drive myself back to the apartment at 5:30, somehow both desperate to see him again and dreading dealing with weeks of hostility and Nolan refusing to look at me, or looking at me with that cold contempt he does so well.

The apartment smells like garlic and herbs when I unlock the door. He’s at the stove with his back to me, stirring something in a pan. He’s wearing a soft grey henley that clings to his shoulders and hangs loose at his waist. His hair is curling softly at the nape of his neck. He glances over his shoulder when I enter, and his expression is—

Pleasant. Polite. Utterly neutral.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he says. “Made enough for two.”

I wait for the anger. It doesn’t come.

I don’t know what to say. I’ve been mentally preparing for a fight all afternoon. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say finally.

“I was hungry. Seemed inefficient to cook separate meals.” He turns back to the stove. “Hope you like pasta.”

His tone is perfectly reasonable like this morning never happened. Like I didn’t have him pressed against the wall with my hand around his cock four hours ago.

I should be pleased but somehow it is infuriating.

I set my bag down by the couch—my bed for the foreseeable future—and hover awkwardly in the kitchen doorway. He moves around the small space easily, seemingly at home. I haven’t cooked anything since university, and even then it was barely edible.

“Can I help?” I ask, just to be polite.

“Almost done. You can set the table if you want.”

I open a cabinet. Wrong one—cleaning supplies. Try another. Glasses. Third time’s the charm: plates. I really haven’t been here in a long, long time.

“Cutlery’s in the drawer by the sink,” he says without turning around.

I retrieve forks and knives and set two places at the small table. It feels absurdly domestic as if we’re a real couple and I didn’t call what happened between us a mistake and flee with my shirt still hanging open.