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“Butterfly,” I husk, rolling on top of her and burrowing my face into her neck. “I love it. I love you.”
She giggles, squirming under my weight. “I’ve never been in here this early,” she says. “Look, you can see the colors through the skylight. They match the ceiling.”
But I can’t look. I can’t see anything but her.
It doesn’t matter anyway. Nothing could possibly be as beautiful as she looks right now, sleep-mussed and starry-eyed, grinning goofily up at me.
And I’m the beast who rutted her all night long.
My scent smolders, and she shifts around again, the humor falling off her face. She traces her fingertips over the crease in my brow. Our eyes meet. I fall into butterfly-blue, lost in the pretty patterns and my own chagrin.
She blinks, her voice softening. “Bear, I’m okay. Everyone is all right. It wasn’t your fault.”
God, she’s too fucking perfect. For any of us. And maybe I ought to feel guilty about that, but I can’t. Because, really? No one could ever deserve her.
But I know I’m damn well going to try.
Palming her soft ass in my hand, I bring her flush with my lower half and wrap her thigh over mine. When I drop my forehead to hers, she sees the intent in my eyes and smiles softly, nodding.
We make love slowly. She lets me hold her the whole time, keeping our faces together and our eyes locked. I touch every part of her, finding all of the secret spots that make moans fly from her lips to feather over my mouth.
Remi lets me make her come twice before I finally push my cock back into her, sliding down to my knot. She kneads her fingers there, every motion soft. After last night, it feels fucking perfect.
When the sun finally rises, it’s a whole new day.
And I’m new, too.
chapter
forty-nine
Clicking into the calendar app, I eye the date and bite my bottom lip hard enough to sting.
I’m having major planner anxiety for two reasons. One is that I don’t have the nerve to mark my upcoming heat down in the iCal. It’s supposed to hit the first week of the playoffs, which is impossible timing for all of the guys.
The chicken part of me wonders if asking them to be there with me during such an inconvenient time will be the deal-breaker I’ve been dreading.
Because… seriously? How can this really be my life?
It can’t be. This has to fall apart—and soon. If the timing of the heat doesn’t scare them off, my crazy Omega probably will once her haze takes over.
All that anxiety is plenty to keep me busy, but there’s a second reason for the way my stomach seethes. And it’s happening tomorrow.
This week has been marked since I created the pack calendar weeks ago. Now, the clear blue bar I strenuously avoided thinking about has finally arrived.
Timberwolves Away Games.
There are four in ten days.
For ten days, the guys will be away from the house. From me. And Smith.
Who will still be here. With me. Alone.
As if on cue, Damon swoops into the kitchen. The tight, silky briefs he prefers would honestly look ridiculous on anyone else, but he pulls them off. Even when he’s frowning in consternation.
“Sweetness? What’s wrong?”
We spent the better part of last night in my bed, doing everything but knotting. He insists he wants the first time to be extra-special, even though, by now, his Alpha must be as desperate for it as my Omega is.
