Page 56 of False Catch

But my body doesn’t care about innocence. It only cares about the heat of her pressed to me, her scent wrapping around me, the little hum of contentment when I adjust to hold her better.

Jackson notices. His eyes track every point of contact, his jaw tight with something that isn’t jealousy. It’s longing. Raw, restrained longing he’s strangling with everything he has.

The movie drones on. None of us are watching. The tension in the room is its own gravity—Reese’s careful breaths, Jackson’s shifting restlessness, my hand tracing absent patterns on her arm without my permission.

“This is ridiculous,” Jackson mutters when the hero does a stunt with stolen cafeteria trays. “Nobody would actually—”

He cuts off.

Because Reese shifts against me, turning until her face presses into my neck. Her breath fans hot against my skin, and her scent spikes, a sharp and undeniable response to my proximity.

To our proximity. Because Jackson's scent is layering with ours, creating something richer and more complex than either of us alone.

My hand stills on her arm. "Reese?"

"Mmm?" The sound vibrates against my throat.

"You okay?"

She pulls back slightly to meet my eyes. Hers are dark, pupils dilated, and there's heat in her expression that makes my mouth go dry.

"Yeah," she says softly. "Just... comfortable."

Her hand shifts on my chest, fingers spreading slightly, and the simple touch sends electricity straight through me. I glance toward Jackson and find him watching us with an intensity that borders on desperate.

This is it. The moment we either step back into safe territory or admit what we all want.

Reese makes the choice for us. Her hand slides up from my chest to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, and she kisses me.

It's soft at first, tentative, like she's giving us a chance to stop her. But when I respond, when my hand comes up to cup her face and I kiss her back with all the want I've been suppressing for weeks, she melts against me with a small whimper that goes straight to my cock.

She tastes like the chamomile tea she had after dinner and something that's uniquely her. Sweet and complex and addictive. I want to map every inch of her mouth, catalog every sound she makes, learn exactly what makes her gasp and sigh and beg.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, eyes glazed with arousal, and the spike in her scent is impossible to ignore.

I look over her head at Jackson, who's gripping the arm of the couch so tight his knuckles are white.

"Jackson," I say quietly.

He shakes his head. "I can't. We can't. This is exactly what they're watching for—"

"They're not here," Reese interrupts, turning to face him without moving away from my side. "Torres isn't here. Carmine isn't here. Quinton isn't here. It's just us."

"That's the problem," Jackson says, but his voice lacks conviction.

Reese shifts, moving so she's kneeling on the couch between Jackson and me, the blanket falling away. Her sleep shorts ride up, revealing the smooth expanse of her thighs, and I see Jackson's eyes drop to trace the exposed skin before he forces his gaze back to her face.

"What's the problem?" she asks. "That you want this? That I want this? That we all know exactly what's happening here?"

Jackson's control is fracturing. I can see it in the way his breathing has gone shallow, the way his scent is sharpening with arousal despite his attempts to maintain distance.

"You don't understand," he says. "Last time I trusted my instincts with an Omega—"

"I'm not her," Reese says firmly. "And this isn't that."

She reaches out slowly, giving him time to pull away, and places her hand on his leg just above his knee. The contact is simple, but Jackson reacts like she's touched him with a live wire.

"Reese," he whispers, and her name sounds like a prayer.