Page 128 of The Rust in Her Hair

"Are you wearing those?" I ask.

"Damn right I am." He shakes them out and lays them over his arm. "I've been dressing too city for the last five years. Tonight I'm going back to Alabama." He tips the brim of his hat at me. "Denim and boots, and if I can find it, my Papa’s old belt buckle." He grins. "Thing's the size of a salad plate. You could land a small plane on it."

"Subtle."

"Subtle's for lesser alphas." He scoops his good boots off the floor and heads for the door with his jeans draped over one arm. "Give a holler when it's my turn at the mirror. Owen! Do you have the iron?"

I pick the bleach-stained shirt back up off the reject pile. It's the best thing I own, stain and all, and if I roll the cuff right the bleach splash disappears into the fold. Good enough. I find a pair of gray slacks that still hold a crease and lay the two together on the bed.

My hands move to the waistband of my sweats when Lyra steps into the room.

The tight black dress stops just above her knees, molding to every curve the whole way down. The straps are a pencil line over her shoulders, and her tits…fuck, they look amazing.

They push up and out, showing off a solid two inches of perfect cleavage.

I've seen her in several of my flannels and old tees for weeks now, swimming in fabric that hid all of her. But this hides nothing.

"Does it look okay?" Lyra twists, showing me the curve of that plush ass, and my knees go weak.

Every drop of blood in my body rushes south at once. And I'm hard before I've taken a full breath, so fast it's almost painful.

Lyra doesn't seem to notice. She's too busy frowning down at herself in the mirror over the dresser. She tugs at the front where it hugs her tits, tugging like she can pull some give into it.

"It's so tight." She twists again, trying to see the back of herself, still pulling the neckline up. "You haven’t said anything." She turns to me. "Does it look okay?" She smooths her hands over her hips. "I feel like I’m all rolls."

I can't answer her at first. I’m too busy trying not to tackle her.

But my sweet omega reads my silence wrong. Her face starts to fall, and a flicker of hurt crosses her face. She drops her head like she's done something wrong, and her hands go still against the dress.

"Lyra." I swallow hard, trying like hell not to growl out loud.

"I’m sure I can find something else," she says to the floor. But then she lifts her gaze, and it lands right on the front of my sweatpants. Her eyes go wide as she takes in my cock straining hard against the fabric, then everything on her face changes at once.

Her lips part, and something goes loose and hungry behind those pretty eyes.

"Omega," I snarl, dropping my shirt.

Suddenly Lyra’s scent floods the room, vanilla and toasted almond turned thick and sweet, and my balls draw up tight enough to ache.

Without looking, Lyra reaches back and shoves the door. It slams. Then she's coming at me across the room. She jumps, and I catch her on instinct, her legs wrapping my waist, and her mouth crashing into mine.

For half a second she leads the kiss, frantic and clumsy and desperate.

Then I take over.

I fist my hand in her hair and angle her head where I want it. She opens her mouth and I lick into her, until my sexy omega goes soft and pliant against me.

"Adrian," she whispers, followed by a small broken sound climbing out of her throat. The sound fucking undoes the last of my restraint.

I turn toward the wall and pin her against it.

Thankfully, her dress is some stretchy thing that gives easily under my hands.

I drag one strap down then pull the front, baring her breasts to my hungry mouth.

I suck on one puffy nipple, and she arches off the wall with a cry. Fingers knot in my hair, holding me to her. I suck her hard, rolling the stiff peak with my tongue, desperate to taste every inch of her.

Lyra's hips lift against me as I move to the other nipple, nipping and sucking. I palm one breast, and she grinds up against me, desperate and wild.