I should stop this. Should remember all the reasons I deleted that app, all the lessons I've learned the hard way about packs and alphas and omegas. Should protect myself from the inevitable heartbreak.
But his hands are sliding under my shirt, calloused palms warm against my skin, and I don't want it to stop. Not because his perfect body is short circuiting my brain. No, I'm stillpainfullyaware of what the consequences for this little indulgence are going to be.
I just don't fucking care.
I'm so tired of being alone, of waiting, of keeping these walls up at all times. It hurts as much as being vulnerable, just in a different way. One that's harder to quantify.
"We should—" I try, but the words dissolve into a moan as he nips gently at my pulse point.
"Should what?" he asks, his voice rough with desire.
"Slow down," I manage, even as my body arches into his touch.
He pulls back immediately, his eyes dark but clear. "You're right. I'm sorry. I got carried away."
The loss of his warmth is almost painful. "No, I didn't mean—" I take a breath, trying to organize my scattered thoughts. "I just meant we should talk more. About what this means."
Relief flashes across his face. "We can talk," he agrees, though his eyes drop to my lips. "Talking is good."
But neither of us moves to create more space between us. His hands remain on my waist, his fingers biting into my soft flesh pressed to his hard body. My legs are still wrapped loosely around his hips, keeping him close.
"What do you want to talk about?" he asks, his voice low and intimate in the small kitchen.
What indeed? The pack? The future? The fact that I'm already in deeper than I ever intended to be?
"I don't know," I admit, my hands sliding up to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. "I can't think straight when you're this close."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Is that a bad thing?"
"Probably," I say honestly. "But I don't care right now."
That's all the invitation he needs. His mouth finds mine again, the kiss deeper, more demanding this time. There's an urgency to his touch now, a hunger that sends heat pooling low inside my core.
We should move this to the bedroom. Should take our time, explore each other properly. But his hands are sliding higher under my shirt, and my patience is rapidly evaporating.
"Darren," I gasp as his thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts. "The dining table."
He pulls back slightly, confusion flickering across his face. "What?"
"The dining table," I repeat, already tugging him toward the adjoining room. "It's closer."
Understanding dawns, followed by a grin that's equal parts wicked and delighted. "Lead the way."
The dining table in question is barely visible beneath stacks of inventory, sweaters and cardigans neatly folded and sorted by size and color. I hesitate, suddenly self-conscious about the state of my apartment.
"We can clear it," Darren says, reading my thoughts. "Or..."
He sweeps me up in one fluid motion, setting me on the edge of the table between two stacks of sweaters. The casual display of strength sends a fresh wave of heat through me.
"Or this works too," I manage, breathless.
His laugh is low and warm against my neck as he presses kisses along my collarbone. "Adaptability is key in hockey."
"Is that so?" I tilt my head to give him better access, my hands finding their way under his shirt to explore the hard planes of his abdomen.
"Mmm," he confirms, his own hands busy with the buttons of my blouse. "You have to be ready to adjust to changing circumstances."
The last button gives way, and he pushes the fabric aside, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of me in a simple black bra. Nothing fancy or special, since I wasn't exactly planning for this when I got dressed this morning, but the way he looks at me makes me feel like I'm wearing the finest lingerie.
