Lola & the Millionaires: Part One (Sweet Omegaverse #2)(2)

Come on, Lola, just pick one.

Normally I liked this club. It was one of the few beta-only night clubs in the city and by far the classiest. I could come here and be safe from the oppressive pheromones of alphas who were looking to settle for an eager beta when what they really wanted was the rare jewel, the omega. I’d been one of those betas just a year ago, secretly wishing I might develop into an omega like some magical fairy tale transformation. That I might be precious, rather than run of the mill. But I’d learned the cost of an alpha’s attention finally, even if it had taken me twenty-five years to realize the truth.

And now I’d found my safe haven. Philia was a little shelter against the weight of alphas and omegas on my mind. And if that wasn’t enough, the music was always good for dancing, the drinks were strong, and the men who showed up looking for women were either hot, well-dressed, or both.

Tonight, though, I was losing interest. Either my routine—sit at the bar, no more than three drinks, always leave alone—was getting old, or it was just an off night at Philia. I took another bitter sip of my drink and slid off the stool before Mr. Tequila On The Rocks could brush up too close against my back.

My timing was shit. As soon as my feet hit the floor a body collided against my back, sending me stumbling forward, tossing my drink up and walking directly into the splash. Two large, warm hands grasped my hips to keep me from falling on my own face, and they pulled me back against a broad chest. I jerked away from the touch, adrenaline spiking and making my heartbeat ricochet in my chest.

“Shit, I’m so—”

“It’s fine, I—”

I spun and stumbled back to blow off whoever ran into me, only to find my words drying up on my tongue. Fuuuuuck, pretty, my brain declared. Which was correct and also kind of an understatement.

“I’m sorry,” he finished, smiling as his eyes took equal interest in looking me over as mine did with him.

Short, inky black hair framed his masculine beauty. He had dense stubble growing over his tan jaw and thick eyebrows over dark eyes. His features were broad, and he had a mouth designed by God herself for kissing, with full but not plump lips. Latino or Hispanic I guessed, looking at eyelashes that women would’ve paid good money for from a beauty store.

Now we’re talking. This was what I was in the mood for. Even if I hadn’t known it a minute ago. It was like I’d been waiting for this absurdly handsome man to walk into me.

“It’s my fault for not looking,” I said, shrugging.

On my chest, a trickle of gin and tonic slipped down beneath the low collar of my dress, curving over one of my breasts and catching the stranger’s eye. He leaned in, one hand reaching up to cover my shoulder, his thumb pressing over the sticky alcohol on my skin. Don’t flinch, I ordered myself. The touch was hot and provocative, but he wasn’t gripping me tight. I was safe.

“Let me buy you another drink,” he said into my ear, and I could finally make him out over the heavy thumping bass of the dance floor. A warm voice with a natural rasp that raised goosebumps over my skin. His lips almost brushed my earlobe, a little trace of heat and damp breath on my skin.

Drowsy, languid arousal washed over me as I took in a deep breath. Fresh laundry, a little citrusy, pure beta. Not that I expected anything different at Philia, but there was no reassurance like the biological. Here was my mark for the night. This guy was handsome, and he was tall and broad-shouldered, and he was safe.

Or as safe as any stranger might be. He wasn’t an alpha.

I tipped my head, letting my cheek brush his until I caught his eye. At least neither one of us was pretending not to be interested.

“How about a dance instead?” I asked.

His eyebrows raised and his smile grew, revealing deep dimples. “I never say no to a dance. You sure you don’t want the drink?”

I shook my head. It didn’t matter that I didn’t finish my cocktail. I didn’t need to now. I’d made my plan for the night and I never drank to get drunk.

Control was something I refused to give up, especially over myself. I pushed the now empty glass back onto the bar, brushing my chest against his. His hand on my shoulder slid down my arm and over to the open back of my dress, fingers digging in lightly for a moment. I ducked my chin to hide my smile as I let him lead us to the dance floor.

Men were kind of easy. Skin usually did the trick. Eye contact always helped.

It was a formula I followed.

1. Drink until I’m buzzed enough to lose the constant tremor of anxiety that hummed in my chest, but not drunk enough to start remembering the past.

2. Find a safe beta target.

3. Reel them in.

4. Get laid. Try to burn off the frustration that clawed through my veins. That clenched my teeth together into a grimace and made my jaw ache. That burned in my eyes so hot, I thought I might scream until my throat was raw. That I might just keep screaming until they buried me in the ground.

5. Go home and try to sleep.

We wove through the crowd of dancers, pressing closer together. I ran a hand up his back, amused at the smooth texture of his suit. Maybe he’d just gotten done for the day at whatever finance job he had in the neighborhood. Either way, the tailoring looked good on him and the quality was high. Maybe I’d make him leave it on just so I could hold onto that high thread count whenever we found the dark corner we’d be using later.

I spun and turned my back to him, his hands cupping around my hips, fingertips settling in the grooves of my hip bones. The music rattled the floor beneath us as I found the rhythm, pleased when he followed it without hesitation. None of that boring dude posturing, where he just stood still and I rubbed up against him. This guy and I were moving together; our bodies had been designed for the connection. I reached my arms back, palms holding onto his shoulders, and rested my head on his shoulder, a soft scratch from his stubble against my temple.