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So, I sit my ass down on the leather seat opposite Thomas. “I’m with you.”
Thomas sighs. “Flattering as that is, and I assure you, it’s seriously flattering because wow, that dress…but actually, I’m meeting…” Then his mouth snaps shut, before he groans and bangs his head on the table, hard. I wince. “Sweet Venom, meaning Candy Snake. Of course, how clever. And I’m an idiot.”
“I think we both are.”
Thomas gives me one of those long stares that made me melt back in high school.
They still do.
“Why can’t I smell you?” He asks. “Or at least, not strongly. You’re my scent match.”
I point at the transparent patches that are stuck onto my scent gland. “You know about my condition. I didn’t think that I’d cope today without upping both the patches and my medically prescribed scent and pheromone inhibitors.”
Thomas takes a deep breath. He clutches his whiskey glass tightly.
His cheeks are tinged a pretty pink. “I wish that I could smell you, sweet venom. I loved your scent of blueberry muffin, when we were younger. I know that it’ll feel different, having started my ruts. Now that I can see you, I need it like this itch under my skin.”
He’s still calling me sweet venom…?
It makes something hot curl in my stomach.
I want to hear his pet name for me in his deep, commanding voice again.
I know what he means about needing the scent. It feels wrong to see him but to be unable to be scent matched fully.
It’s like being edged, and by the way that he’s shifting in his seat, hoping that I won’t notice, I know that he’s feeling it too.
It’s unnatural for scent matched Omegas and Alphas to have their connection be chemically suppressed.
I’m only allowed to control it because of my OHS condition.
Except, I can smell him.
My scent is enhanced, and it’s only the slightest whiff of sweet sugar cookie martini, but it’s delicious.
It’s fucking everything.
It makes me want to jump over the booth into Thomas’ lap, where I can nuzzle at his neck, sniff, and lick.
I place my own cocktail and phone down onto the table with deliberate care to distract myself because I am definitely not licking my delicious smelling enemy.
“Why did you call yourself Seven?” I blurt.
Thomas’ expression lightens. “I love a good pun. My full hookup name is Knot Your Average Hero 7.”
I can’t help it. I laugh.
“Why 7?”
“Six other guys with questionable humor thought of it first.” He takes a slow drink of his whiskey, and I watch the way his long, pale throat bobs. “It’s good to meet you at last. Did you get here okay? As I said before, Haven’s not safe at night when you’re unbonded.”
I stare at him.
He’s truly going to do this: Act like he’s Seven.
But he’s Thomas.
The man who I haven’t seen since high school.
