Page 67 of Pack Choice

“I am,” she says with a chuckle. “Thanks to you. And my arm doesn’t even hurt. It’s still numb.” She lifts her arm and I cringe at the sight of those stitches.

“If someone is trying to hurt you, I don’t want to let you out of my sight,” I say honestly, surprising myself. Has the accident shaken my tongue loose?

“You’re very dedicated to your job,” she jokes.

“It’s not that,” I say, capturing her hand in mine. “I think you know it’s not that.”

The amusement drains from her eyes and she looks into mine with a seriousness. “Tell me what it is.”

But I can’t, not with my words. Not when I can’t make sense of the way I feel about her. Not when I know feeling this way is wrong.

I wasn’t lying. She is a butterfly. Beautiful, fragile, bright, so very precious.

I want her to know that. I want her to feel it.

So I do the only thing I can think of. I tug her closer and then I kiss her.

She gasps in surprise, her taste flooding my senses, spice and sweet, just as I imagined. Then she’s kissing me back, her body wilting towards mine as she wraps her arms around my neck. I slide my arms around her waist, opening my legs and bringing her between them, holding her as close as I can.

And this is heaven. This is peace. Her mouth warm, her kiss tender, her scent electric.

I slide my hand under the hem of her shirt and press it against her warm sunshine skin, feeling goosebumps, feeling how she thrums with life under my fingertips.

She murmurs into my mouth, her fingernails scraping against my scalp and I sink my tongue into her mouth, chasing more of her taste, wanting to kiss her in a way that leaves no doubt in her mind. No doubt about the way I feel. I want her. I want her even though I shouldn’t.

After a moment, it turns hotter, more desperate, more passionate, her nails become vicious, her body writhes against mine, and our mouths work in tandem. When she starts to pant, I push her gently away, careful of the cut on her arm, otherwise god only knows what I’d do.

“You found a shirt,” she says sulkily as she swims her little hands down my chest and my torso.

“Silver gave it to me.”

“Can you take it off? His scent is interfering with yours.” Her nose twitches.

I sweep the thing over my head and her hot little hands are on my body in an instant, racing over my pecs, down my abs and to the waistband of my pants. Then she traces back upward, her fingertips in the grooves between my muscles, following their outlines, marveling in their form.

“You weren’t joking when you said you like to work out.”

“I like your hands on me even more, Omega.”

A smile plays on her lips and her fingers travel higher, circling the tattoo on my left pec.

“Your regiment?”

“Yes, my regiment.”

She squints, fingertip running over the names printed below. “I can’t read it.”

“They’re names.”

“Names?”

I capture her hand again and bring it up to my mouth, kissing her palm and then her pulse point, before peppering kisses all the way up her uninjured arm, along her collarbone and to the crook of her neck. She smells incredible. That mixture of spice and sweet that has my mouth watering, my tongue desperate to taste all of her.

She moans and I kiss her, nipping up and down her throat.

“Oh god,” she says, her scent deepening, turning wetter.

I groan in response, my mouth finding her ear.