An Omega.
The intricate design was a mystical thing she’d read about while doing research on the paranormal after accepting the bartending job at Club Liminality. She knew if she looked closely she would find each of the shifter breeds in the design of the marking, their bodies etched into the skin just as they were embedded within the body and soul. Only those chosen to take over for the presiding Omega were gifted with the mark that arrived at maturity. A darkening of the skin like a tattoo that started at the wrist, covered the left arm and wound across the shoulder toward the heart.
Diskant Black was the Omega of the New York area. She’d heard the name while on the job but had never met the shifter. That cloud of confusion was long gone, leaving stark clarity in its wake. How in the hell had she gotten herself into this?
Silently, she slid on the overlarge garment, bringing as little attention to herself as possible. His scent was damning, imploring her not to listen to her mind but to her body and soul.
“I won’t be long,” he promised as he slid a black turtleneck over his head.
Rational thought kicked in. If she was going to get out of here she had to strategize. He thought she was human, without any knowledge of his kind. It was best to play stupid, wait for him to leave and then get the hell out.
“Can you take Oscar with you?”
His smile was nearly her undoing, both sexy and playful, and her insides wilted as another wave of heat attacked all of the erogenous zones of her body. He adjusted the collar of the formfitting sweater and returned to her, kneeling down.
“Yo, D!” the deep voice from below bellowed. “Where you at?”
Diskant cursed, lowered his head and stole a quick kiss before lurching to his feet. He walked to the door, stopped and turned on his heel. “I won’t be long.” She was about to remind him about the dog when he said, “Come on, Oscar.”
The moment he left the room and the outer door closed with a double snick she was on her feet and all but barreling out of the closet. The light came from a window in the left wall, and she made haste to the venetian blinds. After hiking them up, she pressed her face against the cool panel of glass and sighed in relief. The fire escape was ready and waiting. She glanced down at her bare legs, contemplating her choices. Now she just needed some kind of protection against the elements.
She hurried around the end of the massive four-post bed and came to a matching antique dresser. The first drawer consisted of neatly folded black boxer briefs, the second was full of thin white T-shirts and the third was stocked full of black socks. It was the essential fourth drawer that delivered pay dirt. Jeans were folded neatly inside, along with a few pairs of black sweatpants.
She hiked a pair of the cotton pants out and slung them on. When she finished tying the cord snugly at the waist she bent over, folded the material and rolled the legs up until she could walk without falling. Her New Balance sneakers were placed at the end of the bed along with her messenger bag and she scurried over to them. Crouching down, she worked her feet inside the shoes and picked up the tote.
Opening the window was easy, and she understood why after she climbed down the chute and took the ten-foot plunge to the concrete below. Bright red bricks clashed against the blue sky from one end of the building to the other. Diskant Black, the Omega of the New York Boroughs, lived in an old fire station.
She wanted to laugh but decided it was best saved for the subway ride home. Holding on to the bag draped across her chest, she took off in a dead run, winding through the cars that indicated she was in some place on the Upper East Side.
And she didn’t look back.
His body was humming, his blood was on fire and his balls were ready to explode. Diskant reached down and shifted his throbbing cock, grimacing as the rough texture of his jeans chafed the skin. A cold shower wouldn’t do shit now. One taste, one tiny fucking sample of what pleasures lay in store and the female upstairs had him wrapped around her little finger.
Pinkie, indeed.
It had taken all of his control to take it slow, to allow her take the lead and set the pace—and fucking hell, what a pace. She was everything a woman should be: hot, soft, willing, eager. Best of all, she only needed one tiny kiss and a few lingering caresses to make her sweet pussy weep. The aroma of her arousal as she surrendered to him had almost broken his resolve. He could almost taste how delicious she’d be, hot and musky, with a hint of cinnamon and spice.
His mouth had watered at the prospect of going down on her, especially upon his earlier discovery when he’d cleaned her up and put her in his bed. While removing her clothes to launder, he’d inadvertently snagged her lacy panties in her jeans, and, well, he couldn’t help but look. She was completely bare downstairs, as smooth and silken as a baby’s bottom. A triangle of blonde curls would be nice but seeing her hairless pink lips got him hotter than a wolf during the mating heat.
Christ.
Diskant followed the scent of his visitor, hooking a right past the kitchen with Oscar on his heels. The entire firehouse had been gutted after he purchased it. Aside from the large garage, upstairs bedrooms and two stainless steel poles, it was as posh as his place in Miami. The rooms were all modernized, including the kitchen and bathrooms. And of course, there was the one room the pack loved most. Fifty feet long and thirty feet wide, the basement housed a sixty-inch plasma television, a wraparound couch and a regulation-sized slate pool table. There was more than enough space to accommodate the dozen or so pack members who came to enjoy the game, as well as any females they brought along for shits and giggles.
“There you are, man.” Trey lowered a keg to the floor and moved away from the bar. “I was just stocking up for the game. Nathan has the eats. He said he should be here in thirty.”
Diskant’s oldest and closest friend was also the werewolf Alpha of New York and, consequently, ruled over the largest pack in the northeastern portion of the United States. That made him one bad motherfucker. Trey was dressed in his usual football gear—New York Giants jersey, jeans and scuffed sneakers. Though nowhere near as tall as Diskant’s six feet, six inches, he still stood imposing at a nice, even six-foot-two. His body, while lithe and lean, carried the scars that proved he knew how to scrap in a fight.
As an Alpha, learning to fight was as essential as a diver learning how to swim.
Trey brushed his hands over his short brown hair. He stopped, his honey-colored eyes inquisitive. “What’s with the sweater? And why do you look ready to kill someone? Did things go shitty with the stray?”
“You could say that.” Diskant tried to cool his ardor by accepting what he’d tried to deny the past twelve hours. He looked Trey in the eye and said, “I’ve found my mate.”
Curiosity was quickly replaced with shock. “Come again?”
He shook his head and lowered his eyes, staring at the Berber carpet. “Last night after I took care of the stray, I came upon a scuffle. Two vamps versus one human female. I got rid of the leeches, went to check on the girl and the next thing I knew all of my beasts are fighting for a place at the front of the line. I brought her home, cleaned her up and tried to stay as far away from her as possible. But when she woke up and I went to talk to her…fuck.”
Diskant walked to the bar, reached over the counter and snagged a bottle of Grey Goose. If he couldn’t bargain with his raging cock, he could at the very least attempt to appease it with a good, mind-numbing buzz.