Lights, Camera, Omega (Hollywood Omegas #1)

“I am also in.” Sol gives a shrug, a big smile on his suntanned face. He drifts toward Magnus and Daphne, ready to shepherd us all to the nearby seating area with its bamboo weave mat, an optimal spot to place the game’s titular bottle.

It takes a moment before I realize that everyone has turned their eyes to me—-waiting expectantly for my reaction.

“I hope I live up to the expectations my poster has set for what kind of kisser I am,” I play it cool with an attempt at humor, but as soon as the words have left my mouth, I’m already worried that it’s come off too mean.

“Only one way to find out, I guess.” Daphne gives me a wink, but I can see the strain at the edges of her smile, the waver in those aquamarine blues that give away the knife’s edge of panic.

At least I’m not the only one.

I take a moment to worry about the state of my breath, still more than a little rudderless from the complete 180 the conversation has taken. From my initial insinuations that Daphne’s intentions and potential compatibility with the pack might not be on our level, to what amounts to a bunch of wound up alphas and their beta playing teenage party games with a prospective omega in this bizarrely idyllic setting.

I do my best to teeter unsteadily to the group of beach loungers stacked with plush cushions that Magnus, Sol, and Julian are arranging under the shade of a cantilever umbrella—the brunch feast all but forgotten just a few feet away.

“Ladies first,” Magnus offers chivalrously, gesturing to the open space on the ground in the center of our circle.

Daphne leans forward out of her seat, placing the bottle on its side, and giving each of us a sheepish little glance before she sets the empty bottle of Perrier Jouet into a fast spin.

I find myself surprisingly jealous when the bottle slows to a stop in front of Julian.

“Lucky, lucky,” Magnus chuckles dryly, but I can tell from the way his hands clutch at his kneecaps through his linen pants, knuckles bloodless white, that he’s also more than a little jealous.

My toxic trait is being somewhat delighted by this. Watching Magnus squirm as our precious Julian, our treasured pack beta, wins the first kiss of Miss Dale.

A heat rips through me as I imagine Magnus, hard and stroking himself as he watches Julian preparing Daphne to take Magnus’ knot with his lips and clever tongue. Julian’s auburn head bobbing eagerly between her honey-golden thighs.

Fuck. I lean forward, reaching for a throw pillow to hide my growing erection.

“Okie dokie.” Daphne chugs down the contents of her champagne flute and places it on a low table next to the pool lounge before scooting to the edge of her seat, pausing as she measures the awkward amount of space between Julian and herself—the long, empty portion of one another’s lounge chairs like a gulf between them.

“Oh, uh–here.” Julian shuffles to the end of his lounge chair and twists his body hesitantly toward hers.

Daphne eyes him appraisingly for a moment, leaning forward, then back a few times before deciding to stand from her seat altogether.

“Do you mind if I?” She gestures to his lap—and I watch Magnus carefully cross his legs, a valiant attempt at hiding his own hardness through the thin linen of his safari suit.

Julian, suddenly silenced, swallows down any verbal response—nodding hurriedly in the affirmative.

My eyes find Sol as Daphne carefully steps astride Julian’s lap, lowering herself slowly onto him, his arms wrap around the pinch of her waist naturally, and her hands wind instinctively into his beautiful auburn curls.

Sol seems to hold his breath. Icy gray eyes sparkle with a focused intensity as he watches their faces draw together in the kiss. Daphne’s lips quickly part to allow Julian’s tongue into her mouth.

A moan bubbles up and escapes me. I should have the sense to be embarrassed, but as I watch Julian’s hands travel down her hips toward the round curve of her ass—I realize that neither Daphne nor Julian are likely to hear, much less care in such a state.

After what feels like an age, Daphne breaks the kiss—Julian’s hands stop reluctantly on the bow curve of her hips.

“Gosh, I’m sorry, I got a little carried away there.” Daphne stands, smoothing the rumples in the buttery yellow fabric of her dress, a blush burning feverishly across her cheeks.

“Please do not apologize,” Julian is quick to absolve her, not bothering to hide the outline of his hard cock in his slacks once she’s dismounted him. Neither Magnus nor I are feeling quite so brave at the moment.

“That was delightful, and more than sufficient proof for me that there’s compatibility—at least on my part,” he adds, a little out of breath.

“It looked good from here, too,” Magnus rumbles, easing back in his chair a bit, leg still slightly crossed, his forearm draped as inconspicuous as he can manage, across his lap.

Sol says nothing, but nods like an overeager bobblehead—his right knee bounces at near supersonic speeds as he sits on the edge of his chair.

I can tell it’s taking every fiber of his being, not to just pour himself over her—smothering her mouth with his own.

“Well, Daphne,” Julian laughs, still returning to himself.