by Hannah Haze
He doesn't answer.
The waitress arrives with the bill, smiling coyly at him from under her eyelashes, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder as she bends over him to collect up glasses. She’s an Omega and she’s making it clear that she’s interested. His mother scowls at him and asks for their coats stiffly. The waitress blushes and scurries away. Did he do something wrong?
When it's time to leave, his mother pats him on the cheek, swerving away for her coat as he leans down to kiss her and he steps outside onto the pavement waiting to be dismissed.
Her car is parked a few spaces down the high street, and she unlocks it with a press of the keypad. The headlights flash.
"Can I pay for a taxi home for you, darling?" she asks as the two colleagues climb into the car, one into the back and one into the passenger seat.
"No, I’ll walk," he says, turning and strolling away, his hands buried deep in his pockets and his eyes stinging against the bitter wind.
Three days before they're due to break up for the Christmas holidays, Cora texts him to tell him she'll be going into heat. Her message as always is blunt and he can't help but send an equally grumpy response. The exchange that follows is terse and short, but nonetheless the tension he’d been carrying in his spine melts away, a tightness in his limbs he hadn't realised was there evaporating. He knew she'd arrange things, but there had still been this fear that she wouldn't.
Chapter Seven
Rose gives Cora department store vouchers as a Christmas gift. To Cora this is infinitely better than some hand crafted personal gift that many of her friends coo over. This gift is practical.
Even with her hardship grant and her wages from the coffee shop, she has very little spare cash and she's determined to keep her debt to a minimum. Her student loan already has her feeling sick, the numbers so phenomenally large she can't quite bring herself to believe she will have to pay that back one day. Sometimes she wakes up suddenly in the middle of the night bathed in hot sweat, her heart racing like an express train in her chest, the image of that number a ghostly image across her eyelids.
Vouchers, along with a small Christmas bonus from the cafe, means she can buy new socks and new pants.
The department store heaves, people jostling around one another, knocking each other's shins with full shopping bags, squeezing through small gaps with irritated huffs. Boppy Christmas music blasts above the noise of the beeps of the tills and the pound of many pairs of feet on the laminate floors.
This year the store has chosen a silver theme to compliment some Christmas blockbuster that was released a week ago. It was a mistake, she thinks. The store feels colder as a consequence, although in fact it's far too warm, the heaters streaming hot air over the shoppers in their heavy coats.
She hooks her own coat over her arm and takes the escalator up to the second floor and the women's underwear department. As she steps off the moving steps, she's greeted by a collection of mannequins arranged around a sofa. Two perch on the arms, one lounges across the cushions, and the final two stand against the sofa's back. All are dressed in lingerie. Skimpy, bras and knickers, or corsets, garter belts and stockings, one has a gauzy dressing gown draped over her shoulders with pom poms hanging from the ribbon belt, another wears silk French knickers with a matching camisole. The colours are deep jewels; blacks and reds and purples.
She stands and stares at them.
Cora has never liked her body. Partly because being an Omega brings discrimination and boundaries as well as the physical difficulties she has to endure, such as heats and heavy periods. Then there are the very real dangers it presents. Passing through puberty and stepping into her new body was like emerging into a new world. A more adult and frightening world where men looked at her with a sudden interest that seemed possessive and violent, and where her body responded to smells and images against her will.
She'd had to learn quickly how to navigate this new world. How to stay out of the path of Alphas, how to repress the strange desires that weren't really hers, how to keep herself safe.
But it wasn't just being an Omega that resulted in the repulsion with her body. She would've felt dissatisfied with it, even if she'd been a Beta. She doesn't possess the supple curves of the women she can see pinned to the rows of bras, smiling coyly above their cleavages. Her body is all jutting bones and lean muscle.
She's been called pretty several times over the years. Her friends say she is. She supposes maybe they are right. She has a pleasant face, unobtrusive and almost plain. She's a cartoon, not a painting. Cute, not beautiful. Button nose, round cheeks and bowed lips. The only feature she really likes are her eyes. Their colour is an icy blue — and she can use their coolness to her advantage.
Behind the harem of mannequins are the displays of underwear; there to tempt husbands and partners. It makes her smile. She can't picture Noah here searching through the bras and knickers, but she has a sudden thought that he'd like to see her dressed in them. She takes a step closer.
There's a blood red set, the bra triangular with no padding. It's transparent and she can see the nipples of the lady modelling the set. She touches it. The material is gauzy. Maybe it's her approaching heat because the thought of it against her own skin, brushing over her nipples, has excitement growing in her belly. Yes, she'd like him to see her in this. She'd like him to trace the straps with his fingertip, skate along the cups, flick open the clasp and let it trail down her arms.
No, she shouldn't spend her money on that. She needs practical knickers — the kind you can ride a bike in and run for the bus. She strolls to the aisle that houses the boxed cotton briefs. Searching through the packs, she finds her size in some plain white variety with a little bow at the front. She could purchase five of these sets for the same price as the red bra and knickers. But she doesn't own anything as pretty, as sexual, as that and she notices herself wandering back over and touching it again.
Would she look good in it? She isn't sure. Does it matter? In the end she decides to buy the set as much for herself as him.
◆◆◆
The flat is decorated with paper chains Rose crafted, and there's a string of white lights twisted around the window in the front door. Rose also insisted on buying a dwarf Christmas tree that stands in the kitchen. She clearly loves the build up to Christmas; fully embracing the playing of music, baking of cookies, wrapping of presents. She hasn't realised that Cora's lack of enthusiasm for the celebration is not down to her cynicism with capitalism, but is more to do with the fact that she'll be spending Christmas alone again. Although she hasn't told Rose or her other friends that she's staying in the flat for the holidays. They assume she has somewhere to go, and she doesn't tell them otherwise. There would probably be someone who would invite her to stay, but she hates being the charity case. She hates being reminded that she's alone.
Sometimes she feels like a boat on an ocean with no anchor. No way to stop herself from drifting aimlessly about, from crashing into rocks or being swept away in a rip tide. Other people have those anchors. They have many, as well as ropes to bind them to the shore and keep them safe.
The few times she'd gone to stay at a friend's house, she’d felt strangely removed. As if she was not possessing her body but was watching the familial scene apart from it, not really there.
Noah will be here for her heat during the first few days of the break and then he will leave too and she will occupy herself with cleaning up the mess from their time together and will forget the rest of the world is living without her.
As usual, his knock on the door is brisk and impatient and he has his duffel bag on his shoulder. She follows him through to the kitchen, keen to see what he's brought, and hovers around him as he unpacks the food items into the fridge. There's mince pies and Christmas chocolates as well as a small turkey breast and ready prepared gravy, roast potatoes and vegetables. When he's finished, he twists around.
"Your fridge is always so bloody empty," he says. "If I didn't bring you food,
I'm sure you'd starve to death in your heat."
"I like that you bring me food."
He smirks. "Why?"
"I dunno." She shrugs playfully. "I could lie and say I keep the cupboards deliberately bare so you're forced to bring me food. But actually Rose does the shopping and I always forget to get food when she leaves."
He hooks a finger through the belt loop of her denim skirt and pulls her towards him. She comes willingly.
"You need to take better care of yourself, Omega." He kisses her. It's tentative, like it always is at the beginning with them. He's checking he's still welcome and tasting whether there's any unspoken resentment lingering on her lips.
Sometimes there is. Sometimes she needs to berate him for things she's heard or seen him do — she has to get that off her chest, rail at him a bit and him her in return — before she can submit herself over to her body and her needs.
But this time she's nothing to say. Now they are both living off campus she hardly sees him. The occasional shared economic lecture (he's been turning up for more of them), the odd house party, sometimes a night out at the same bar. She thinks his rugby must be keeping him busy. He's got a permanent place on the university team and is living in one of the team houses. She knows they train a lot.
Once, by coincidence, she passed him practising while out for a run, although perhaps she'd been unconsciously lured there by his scent. He smells more vivid, more concentrated and strong when he's pushing his body and his skin shines with that film of sweat. She often catches a taste of it in the air. Even when it's old and stale, she still finds herself chasing it with her mouth, enjoying the strange tingle of him on the tip of her tongue. It brings images of him, of them, and she finds her skin heating. It's strange how smells do that to her — transport her to other times and places. Often those journeys and those memories are not good. But undeniably, with his scent, it's different. It elicits pleasant feelings, and it is bitterly confusing.
She's fallen for the temptation to run that way again. He probably finds it annoying to have her hanging about conspicuously like that. Omegas and Alphas can't be seen within ten feet of one another without sparking rumours — most of them lewd and involving huge leaps towards ludicrous assumptions.
His kiss becomes more impassioned, and he lifts her up and places her on the kitchen worktop. He sweeps aside her hair and wraps his tongue around her gland once, twice, three times. She's given up telling him to stop doing that. It feels like nothing she can describe. Heavenly, transporting, trans-lifting. She scrapes her fingernails into the wood of the countertop to stop herself from begging him to bite her there. Instead she tilts her head, allowing him to consume the sensitive spot completely. His hands stroke up the outside of her thighs and circle her waist.
When he pulls away his eyes are tender; his black pupils suspended in the molten sugar of his irises. It does something to her when he looks at her like this, with want and desire swirling across his face. It makes her want to do almost anything to get him to fuck her.
She reaches under the hem of her skirt and wriggles down her woollen tights. He trails the knuckles of his finger along the tender side of her thigh, right the way up to the gusset of her underwear, already wet with slick. Then he removes her thick jumper and her top so she's sat in just her skirt and bra.
"Fuck," he mutters when he gets a look at the scarlet bra. His eyes widen and he stares, his eyes travelling over the rise and fall of each breast. "Fuck."
"We really shouldn't do this here," she whispers, butterflies flitting in her stomach as he shrugs off his own sweater and t-shirt, and rubs a flat palm over the rigid muscles of his chest.
"You worried the pearl clutcher will disapprove."
"No, I'm thinking more of the practicalities when we end up stuck here."
"Easy access to the fridge." He grins, showing his white slightly crooked front teeth. His hands are under her skirt, one large finger slipping under her knickers and circling her entrance. "And I'd like to fuck you here. Then every time you sit here eating dinner with your friends, you'd have to think about what we'd done." He nudges a finger inside her and strokes at the point he knows she loves.
"Noah," she gasps as she lifts open her legs to give him more room and tips her head back.
"I'll carry you back to bed." He says it in a low painful moan as his lips find her collarbone and he sweeps them wet along to the right strap of her bra. With his free hand, he cradles her shoulder and brushes the strap aside, following it with his mouth as it falls down her arm until he’s at her breast. He pauses, rubbing the tip of his nose against her hardened nipple and the feel of the material and the warmth of his skin are exactly as she'd imagined.
"You know," he whispers, his breath rushing over her nipple and making her gasp. "This is the best Christmas present."
"You like it?"
"What do you think?" he says, suddenly biting her nipple through the bra, tugging at it with his teeth. "I almost don't want to take it off. But your tits are so insanely soft." He pulls the gauze away to free her breast and rubs his cheek over the creased skin.
"Hmmm," she moans. His attention to every little part of her is always surprising. She never knew a tongue in her ear, or a stroke to the sole of her foot, or breath between her thighs could make her so alive, so desperate for more.
Slick coats his hand and he cups her, grinding the heel of his hand over her sensitive nub until she's lost to a wave of pleasure and begging him. Only then does he enter, taking a hold of her backside and plunging inside. He pauses, searching out her eyes, ensuring she's ready for him and then driving further.
Later in bed, he asks her, "Where are you going for Christmas this year, Omega?"
She doesn't answer him. It’s not something she wants to talk about.
He scrubs his hand down his face, as if trying to remove some annoying thought. "Do you... would you want to come to mine?"
Her cheeks burn with embarrassment. She doesn't want his sympathy or his charity. "No," she says, finally.
He nods, thinking. "You know I'd stay with you if I could. But I can't — I have to go home. My brother is over for Christmas and my life won't be worth living if I'm not there too."
Shocked, she says, "I don't want you here."
"Right, yeah."
But when he leaves three days later, the evening before Christmas Eve, he seems to take longer than usual cleaning himself up and packing his things, and she hovers around him, sitting on the edge of the bed as he kneels on the floor and fills his bag with his clothes, leaning against the counter top as he sorts out the food in the fridge.
"I’ve left you the Christmas dinner, “ he says.
She nods, a lump in her throat.
"I’ve got to go now — if I miss this train, there won’t be another one for hours." He slings his bag over his shoulder and hesitates. He steps towards her and her breath catches. He cups her cheek in his hand and she steels herself. He pauses again, then brushes his lips over her forehead.
"Happy Christmas, Cora."
She closes her eyes, smelling the confusion she feels in her scent. He must smell it too. Her own hands twitch, wanting to cradle his hand in hers, wanting to push him away.
"Happy Christmas, Noah."
He withdraws his hand and walks steadily away, halting at the door. "Shit, I nearly forgot. I got you a present." He drops his bag to the floor and rummages through the pocket at the end.
"Oh, you didn't — I mean, you'll miss your train," she stutters.
Closing the distance between them quickly, he thrusts the small bundle into her hands. It's bound neatly in silver paper, but there's no tag. She tucks her thumb under a fold of the wrapping paper.
"You can't open it yet. You have to wait until Christmas day." He grins at her.
She squeezes the gift with her hands. Whatever is inside is squidgy, not solid. "Okay, but I didn't get you anything. I feel bad."
"Cora," he says, "that red underwear."
S
he smiles, but can't meet his meaningful look.
He hangs his bag back over his shoulder. "You know if you did want to give me something," he pauses, then finishes quickly, "you could let me have those knickers."
"But they're not washed."
The side of his mouth twitches and his eyes spark with amusement. "Cora, that's the whole point."
Heat creeps from her chest, up her throat and to her cheeks. "It's just, they cost me a lot of money."
Now his cheeks glow. It's the first time she's made him blush. "Right. Fine. You keep them then. I'd rather get to see you in them again, anyway."
She hugs her gift to her stomach and he strides down the hall, lingering at the door to peer back at her. "Take care of yourself," he says before shutting the front door.
The door slams with a thud and then it’s silent, eerily silent, the flat bare and empty without his presence.
She traipses to her room, resisting the urge to rip open his gift, and lies face down on the soiled mattress, inhaling their combined smell.
On Christmas day, she zips on the Christmas onesie Zach bought her and puts the Christmas dinner in the oven. While she's waiting for the food to cook, she unwraps his present. It's a small fluffy panda with a tag around its neck.
To keep you company, Noah x
It's the kind of thing an Omega likes — soft and snuggly against the skin. It's the kind of thing a boyfriend gives a girlfriend. It's the kind of toy you buy a lonely child.
What does it mean?
When her dinner is ready and set out attractively on her plate, she positions the panda alongside and takes a photo with her phone. She sends it to Noah with a thank you.
He doesn’t respond until the evening when she’s tucked up in bed eating Celebration chocolates and watching the Strictly Christmas special on her laptop.
Noah: Have you named him?