Page 57 of The Rust in Her Hair

She’s not wearing any underwear.

There's bare skin, soft and pale in the low lamplight. She’s practically hairless, like all omegas, with the smallest trace of dark blond pubic hair along the top seam of her cunt.

My mind goes blank.

All the fight, all the self-disgust, it all simply vanishes.

I take a step toward the bed, my body moving on its own, drawn by a force. My eyes are locked on the perfect curve of her soft sex. The lips look puffy and smooth, begging to be licked.

I’m transfixed.

My hand lifts, reaching out. It hovers over her for a second, then I lower it, a single finger extending until it makes contact. I touch the fine, soft hairs, the lightest brush of my fingertip against her skin.

It’s the barest touch, but it feels like a lightning strike.

Lyra moans softly. A little, sleepy sound. Her legs shift, parting slightly, then she rolls over, tucking her face into the pillow, still fast asleep.

The sound of her voice, the movement, breaks the spell.

I stumble back, yanking my hand away as if I’ve been burned.

Shame floods me instantly, hot and sick, but so does the arousal, a pulse of heat that makes my cock throb painfully in my shorts.

I have to get out of here.

Turning away from the bed, I practically run from the room, fleeing down the hall and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

The shower's running. Owen's shape moves behind the curtain, water sheeting down the plastic.

"That you?" he calls over the spray.

"Yeah." My voice comes out rougher than I want, so I clear my throat and try again. "Yeah, it's me."

I brace my hands on the counter, staring at my reflection in the mirror, at the wild look in my eyes. I'm disgusted with myself, but I'm also crazy turned on, and I don't know which feeling is worse.

"She go down okay?"

"Out cold." I sound halfway normal. Close enough.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "You feel amped."

Shit.

He's got a direct line into me, and I'm standing here lit up like a live wire, pouring it straight down our bond without meaning to.

I close my eyes and reach for the thread between us. I take everything churning in me—the heat, the shame, the animal thing still clawing at the back of my skull—and I press it down flat. I smooth the bond out on my end until all that runs across it is calm. Steady. A tired man at the end of a long day.

It takes everything I have to hold it there, and I hate doing it to him. It feels like lying. But I don’t know what else to do right now.

"I'm fine," I manage to say. "I've just got a lot on my mind."

In the reflection of the mirror, I see the curtain pull back and Owen sticks his head out. His wet hair is plastered to his forehead, blinking at me without his glasses. He gives me a slow once-over, and a small smile tugs at his mouth.

"So get in." He tips his head toward the spray. "Let me help you take your mind off it."

I turn from the mirror and give him a smile back. Whatever happened in that room, this is where it ends.

Owen, Adrian, and Mack are my mates.