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She smooths her hands over my dirty, sweaty face, the touch sweet. “Let me deal with it, big guy. I’m okay. Thanks for sticking up for me, though.” She throws in a crooked little smile. “That was hot.”
I huff a laugh, marching us toward the locker room. On the fly, I decide to get my shit and do my conditioning at our home gym. I also decide I’m taking that jackass’s Bugatti to get there. His vanilla ass can walk home.
We’re totally alone down here. The other guys will be working out for at least two hours. I’m sure Ronan and Archer are waiting at the gym for me to turn up with Meg. When Declan stomps in without us, they’ll assume I carried her off.
I send them a text telling them I have her in the locker room, and I’m taking her home because of Declan Dickhead. I put the message in the group chat so he’ll see it when he gets his phone later.
Ronan immediately erupts in all caps while Archer calmly asks after Meg. That’s his only focus—is she okay? Does she need him? Can I make sure she’s comfortable until they get back for the night?
Meg’s eyes are closed, her face pressed into the scent of my throat. I seat us on one of the changing benches between walls of glossy orange, extra-wide lockers. They’re more like individual mudrooms, really. And mine is, of course, the messiest one in the whole damn place.
“I told the guys that I carried you off to ravage you,” I joke, hoping she feels up to playing with me. If she isn’t, I’ll tell Archer to come.
She cracks another smile, her eyes still relaxed and shut. “Oh boy. Is Daddy mad?”
“Not at us,” I reply, smiling back. “Should we give him something to be pissed about? We could tee-pee his office. Or the Rolls.”
Her blue eyes flash open. “That car is way too beautiful to desecrate.”
I snort in pretend offense. “Excuse me, but you seemed to have no issue redecorating my car.”
She shrugs playfully, her expression full of false innocence. “Well, yours isn’t a Rolls.”
“Oh-ho,” I crow, my fingers finding her ribs, tickling. “I see how it is, peaches. Should we not even bother with a Mercedes for you, then? Straight to a Ferrari?”
She giggles and gasps, squirming around in my lap. “Theo!”
By the time I’m done, she’s breathless, straddling one of my thighs—because, in that skirt, she actually can’t straddle both.
Guess I’ll have to take it off.
chapter
thirty-nine
Theo is predictable in the absolute best way. The second I come on to him, he’s on his feet, towering over me and the lockers, kicking off his cleats and socks.
His wide grin is just cocky enough to make my belly flip. “Got a locker room fantasy, peaches?” he teases, rolling his jersey up his abs with a suggestive slowness. “Or did you get all of those out of your system in high school?”
It’s one of those weird moments when I suddenly remember—oh, yeah, we don’t actually know everything about each other. My teeth catch the corner of my mouth. “I didn’t go to high school, actually.”
Theo frowns, pausing mid-strip. I shrug one shoulder, trying to sound casual. “Omega, remember?”
He pulls off his jersey, revealing the manliest torso in existence. Wide, long, entirely covered in muscle, the lines dusted with the same dark blond hair that makes up his beard. He throws his jersey in a careless, distinctly-Theo way, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
“My sisters are omegas. They both went to school. Did your parents not want you to?”
I open my mouth, the whole story stuck in the middle of my throat, aching to come out. But I don’t want to tell it under fluorescent lights, surrounded by the faint aroma of a few dozen alphas. And I’d really rather tell them all at once, so I don’t have to do the whole thing multiple times.
“I didn’t have an alpha brother to kick ass on my behalf,” I return.
Theo’s grin is like the sun. It warms my face, my bones, my heart. “Very glad I’m not your brother, peaches. I’d much rather be your alpha.”
He bucks his hips toward me, the motion teasing. “Does your lack of high school romance mean you don’t know how to unlace these pants?”
“Afraid not,” I laugh, my hands reaching over to snap the waistband. It’s frightfully damp. Just how much do these guys sweat, anyway?
And why does it smell good?
