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Her brand new designer suit fits her like a glove, perfectly tailor to her shape and rife with elegant details—a sleek, matt black finish with gold embroidery and antique buttons, the skirt flared around her full hips and her jacket open right to her chest, where a lace white top looks almost risqué. Sam bought it because Kirk did a double-take at the mannequin, though she never intended to wear it for him.
She was hoping it’d get a similar reaction from a certain someone at work, except Mon didn’t even look at her when she strolled in—Sam strut right past her desk, and Mon pulled her chair up to her computer and tensed both shoulders, hunching away. Ego kept Sam from stopping and insisting Mon look. If her expression twisted into something dark, dangerous, fair enough—she knows now what her employees whisper behind her back, and they won’t find the scowl out of the ordinary. She marched on to her office, plopped down into her chair, and immediately started plotting. She’s a strong, viable alpha, and the omegas in her office should automatically look at her, but if they don’t, there are ways to make it happen. She pulls up the page Mon posted yesterday and starts scrolling for mistakes—anything she can use an excuse to pull her favourite omega into her office. Then she’ll lean back in her chair, cross her legs, and radiate such virile alpha energy that Mon will go weak in the knees.
There are no typos. The language is fluid. The graphics are perfect. Mon’s perfect—so annoying. Sam wrinkles her nose, sniffs, and straightens, because something’s creeping in over her floral candles.
Maybe it’s just because she’s irritated, bringing out that deeper, feral side, but she can actually smell an omega’s scent in her office. A thick, intoxicating perfume of need and want, pretty and soft but desperate—
A shiver runs down Sam’s spine when she realizes why she can smell it even through the walls of her office. It’s not just any omega’s normal scent. It’s special, someone good, and heat.
It’s rich, cloying, delectable, curling inside her and coaxing out fangs, making her nails dig into her thighs with the urge to taste this poor creature—one already craving an alpha’s touch. And it compounds her annoyance tenfold, because she’s got enough on her plate without her employees being even more irresponsible and incompetent than usual. She doesn’t mind hiring omegas. But she has one rule she repeats over and over again—no office hookups. That’s bound to happen when omegas are too stupid or lazy to take suppressants. Her gaze goes cold, Mon’s page fading to a blur. Sam has a bigger problem. Someone to publicly tear apart, then fire. She sucks in a deep breath of the relatively clear air in her office, steeling herself against how tempting it smells, how much more intense it’ll be past her walls. She didn’t know she had anyone around her that smelled that good. She’s not going to go easy on them because of it. She pushes out of her chair and storms for the door, heels clicking like the rev of an incoming car ready to run over everyone.
She squares off at the collection of desks outside, where ever single person is instantly aware of her. Some nervously look over, others anxiously cower away. Mon’s infuriatingly glued to her computer, like anything on the screen could possibly be more interesting than Sam’s astronomically expensive jacket.
She clears her throat, as though she doesn’t already have everyone’s attention, and demands to know, “Who is it?”
Skittish looks flitter around. Nobody says anything.
She raises her voice one small, menacing octave. “Well? What complete fool forgot to take their suppressants?” The alphas and betas—most of her staff—visibly relax, as though they only just realized what crime she’s punishing and are relieved it can’t be their fault. It should be obvious why she’s mad. The place reeks of that gorgeous, mesmerizing scent—it’s a wonder the other alphas aren’t already drooling over whoever it is. Sam lifts her chin, taking a slow step forward, chasing it down. “Hm? Speak up. I’m perfectly happy to fire every omega in this building if I don’t know which one was so disrespectful as to—”
She stops, eyes trained on the single person who dares to still have their back turned. Mon’s bent forward over her keyboard, soft brown hair swept in graceful waves down one shoulder, only a little bit of bare skin visible along the nap of her neck—
Sam inhales and nearly sees stars. It’s delicious. Mon’s trembling, fingers shaking around a fistful of her pale pink sleeve. The scent flares with Sam’s eyes on her, like she can feel it, feel an alpha’s attention, even if she refuses to turn around and look at them. There’s a split second where Sam can’t speak, can’t think, can barely breathe—she’s consumed with the desire to eat Mon alive.
Then Noi drops a pencil, hurriedly picks it up, and Sam snaps back to reality. She barks, “Mon, my office, now.” And she turns on her heel and abruptly heads back. She doesn’t explain why to the rest of her staff and doesn’t have to; they’ll all assume she’s about to berate the living daylights out of the newest, sweetest, most valuable omega in the building. She can hear Mon’s heels rushing after her and has to bite back a smirk over that, or a satisfied smile over that delightful scent following her. It’s no wonder she liked it that much. It makes her feel minutely better. She’s not going soft, not losing her touch for just any old omega. Of course she’d react to Mon’s scent. It’s not her fault Mon’s...
Whatever Mon is. Sam steps into her office, holds the door out, and all but slams it shut the minute Mon shuffles inside. She’s in glossy white pants and a pastel pink sweater, unique and stylish, as usual. She’s always good to look at. Good to listen to. Good to breathe in. Sam steps closer than she means to, and Mon sucks in a sharp breath, balls her hands into fists at her sides, and stubbornly stares down at her feet. Her eyes look hazy behind her thick lashes, but she won’t give Sam a proper look. Her glistening lips look plump and pretty, kissable. She must be wearing gloss. She always does her makeup well—subtle but classy. She knows how to present herself. She’d look good on Sam’s arm.
Sam hurriedly stamps that thought down and crosses her arms, letting her stance and her presence say it all. One of the benefits of being an alpha is how easy it is to be intimidating. She doesn’t say anything, because she doesn’t have to. Mon should know she fucked up. She screws up that adorable face and takes a long, strained breath, then tells Sam’s feet, “I’m sorry, Khun Sam.”
“Tch,” Sam grunts, rolling her eyes. Obviously, an apology’s not enough. “I don’t want to hear it. What were you thinking? You’re not a little girl anymore, Mon. This is a serious job. If you can’t be responsible—”
“I know, I’m sorry. But I told you the deadline for yesterday’s article wasn’t feasible, and I had to stay up all night—”
“If you can’t handle it—”
“I can handle it—”
“Mon,” Sam sharply cuts in, “Go home.” You’re fired doesn’t follow. It was supposed to. Sam means to say it. But then Mon wouldn’t come back, and Sam wouldn’t see her every day, wouldn’t be able to enjoy her sweet scent...
“No.”
Sam blinks. Squints. “Excuse me?”
“No,” Mon insists, biting her bottom lip, somehow looking even cuter, even though she’s already so adorable that Sam just wants to bend her over the desk and—“I... I’m fine. I’m fine, I can still work...”
“Mon.”
“I’m fine.”
“Go home.”
“No, I can do this, I can—”
Sam steps closer, and they were already so close—her foot slots between Mon’s, one of the pleats in her skirt brushing Mon’s thighs, and Mon finally glances up, those wide eyes of hers dazzling. They pierce through Sam instantly. They’re still clear, sober, but with that little edge of lust that she’ll give way to soon, because omegas in heat can’t help themselves. Sam hisses what they both already know, “You’re in heat.”
“I’m not...”
Sam shouldn’t, needs to stop, but the animal in her reacts to the animal in Mon, and she reaches out—she presses her hand flat against Mon’s stomach. There’s a sliver of skin between Mon’s sweater and pants, so soft and so warm, piping hot against Sam’s palm. She could swear she can already feel Mon’s heart racing. Mon looks Sam dead in the eyes and doesn’t step away. Her lips part. She doesn’t stammer. She just stares at Sam, like she could possibly be even half as entranced as Sam is.
Sam crosses a line she told herself she never would, but she’s having an almost out-of-body experience, her hand moving on its own, turning to face down and then trailing lower—Mon sucks in a breath and arches into Sam’s touch.
Sam curls her fingers between Mon’s legs and cups her hard. Mon gasps, hips stuttering forward. She bucks into Sam’s hand, nearly stumbles, and grabs Sam’s arms, desperately clinging to her jacket. Sam slides her thumb over the front and slowly squeezes, dragging an absolutely filthy moan out of Mon’s throat. She whines beautifully and groans up at Sam, “It’s not fair.”
“Not fair?” Sam’s not following—she’s too busy kneading Mon’s crotch.
Mon gasps, “Missing a day wouldn’t do this to me if you didn’t—if I didn’t want—” She cuts herself off twice, licking her lips, but Sam knows.
She rubs between Mon’s plush thighs, feels the fabric between them rapidly dampening, and can’t help accusing, “You’re wet.”
Mon pouts like Sam’s cruel for saying that. But it’s true. Mon’s gushing wet and reeks of arousal, scorching hot in Sam’s hands. Sam quirks a brow and challenges, “Are you really going to tell me you can keep working?”
Mon gives her an irritated look, clearly on the cusp of denying it again. Sam demands, “Go home.”
Mon shakes her head. So stubborn. Omegas are supposed to be more compliant than that. It’s annoying when Mon defies her.
Sam does what she has to to win—she leans in, over Mon’s round shoulder, and purrs right in her ear, “Mon needs to go home and nest... before an interested alpha takes her home.” And Sam tries to take a step back, her point made, except Mon grabs her wrist and won’t let her. She can feel Mon quivering, bubbling up, her panties sticking to her folds and her pants following—
Sam looks down at her, into those enthralling eyes, a thousand times more attractive than Kirk’s, than anyone else’s she’s ever seen. Mon quietly asks, “Can I have Khun Sam’s jacket for my nest?”
They look at each other, and all Sam can see is her brand new designer jacket wrapped snugly around Mon’s slender shoulders. She can perfectly picture Mon in the corner of her office, snuggled up in a heap of her things—her clothes, her blankets, her pillows—reaching out both arms to beckon Sam into them—their bare legs intertwined and strands of their long hair mingling together as they stroke each other’s sides—
Somehow, Mon’s flying through symptoms, like Sam’s dragging her down far faster than she should—she’ll never make it home before the heat fully hits. She’s already pinching her thighs together around Sam’s hand and guiding Sam to massage her, whilst she stares up at Sam like she’s the predator, demanding Sam stay put and help her.
Sam swallows. Mon actually said no to her. And suddenly, Sam doesn’t think she can say no to Mon. Mon’s lips always look kissable. They’ve become irresistible. Mon gives Sam’s jacket a little tug like she wants to rip it off and cuddle it close—wants to drape herself in anything that smells like Sam.
Sam jerks away. Mon makes a hurt noise, looking betrayed, and Sam rushes around her before the resolve crumbles.
Sam leans out into the main room just long enough to call, “Everybody has the day off, go home!”
Her entire work force freezes. They all stare at her like deer in headlights—clumsy, ugly ones, while a beautiful fawn is all doe-eyed in her office. She growls, “Now!”
They scramble to get away. She doesn’t wait to watch them leave. She yanks the door shut again and locks it, knowing that no one will burst in, and hopefully no one will be left outside to hear the walls shaking.
Then she marches back to claim her omega, and Mon all but flies into her arms.