Omega Artist: A Hero Club Novel

by Hope Irving

  “Nope.” I lick my lips, pretending that they’re dry. “My Omega Artist will have to wait and see…” I pause and swat his ass, which is covered by his coat.

  A few weeks ago, I started calling him Omega Artist, which I believe is incredibly fitting, and he’s conceded that he does, too. Honestly, nicknaming a guy “my prince”—as I called him a couple of times because of his piercing—wouldn’t do.

  To each their own. I’m not judging, but I don’t have a submissive bone in my body, and my prince insinuated that. Hence, the prince stayed on his amazingly magical cock, and the nickname got swapped for something more realistic. He’s a talented artist and definitely an omega, so it’s fitting.

  “You’re such a tease!”

  “We aim to please,” I reply, and he leans down to give me a sloppy kiss, his arm circling my lower back as if our bags weigh nothing. I can’t blame him for missing out on the 50 Shades of Grey reference that Sophie would have chuckled at. I eventually break the kiss. “That’s why I brought you here. We’ll have fun, you’ll see,” I add to convince him. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m more of a city girl myself, you know.” I reach to take my bag from him, but he shakes his head vehemently. His hair is growing, and his loose brown curls give him a ragged look that appeals to me. “But Eileen strongly recommended it.” We have kept in touch since our last encounter, and Mike has practically adopted me as his sister. “We can blame her later, if we hate it here.” That earns me another kiss, a blistering this time that tastes like a prelude for sex.

  “You can blame it on Mike’s mom all you want,” he corrects me as we walk toward the distant entrance. “But I blame it on Claire and Soraya teaming up to convince me that your idea was brilliant. And now that I think about it, I wonder if you guys aren’t all in this together!”

  Trying to keep pace with his long stride, I stifle a grin. “So you’re accusing your female friends of tricking you?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “You implied it. That’s more than enough, you know. I wasn’t under the impression that I forced you into anything.” I stop for a moment, frustrated. I’m replaying the events that led to this moment and can’t make sense of his reaction.

  Tig’s art opening marked a turning point in our interactions. Our online relationship has always been easy and fun, while our real life one has been a little more complicated.

  In the end, the chemistry transferred in the best of ways. The sex is off the charts! We are so compatible in bed—or anywhere else, for that matter—that it’s almost too good to be true. In addition to his hidden jewel, another novel perk is that his ink—which covers his neck, torso, back, and some of his thighs—now fascinates me. It’s a strange mix of admiration and repulsion.

  My quest for Prince Charming is on hold. My plot involving the manwhore personified is on hold. My sampling of other specimens is on hold. We haven’t discussed being exclusive because neither of us is after something serious. Right from the start, he was pretty clear that he doesn’t do relationships—dating, marriage, or otherwise. So was I. If I’m being completely honest, I enjoy spending time with him.

  I can’t believe that I haven’t slept with anyone else since meeting him in person… No, scratch that. I did fuck Eric that one time after meeting Tig. When the hot flight attendant reached out wondering what I was up to a few weeks later, I told him that I was still in New York and would be up for grabbing a coffee as friends. Period. We text occasionally, and he enjoys taunting me with a picture whenever he’s somewhere exotic.

  The distance that I initially maintained around Tig has evolved, and the same is true for him. As open as I am sexually, I’m grateful that he respects my boundaries and never pushes them; from the moment I stopped him from touching my chest, he hasn’t made another attempt to slide under my tee-shirt. Respect is definitely a major turn-on for me!

  Meeting Soraya, Graham, and his other friends did more to show me the person that Tig is than the image that I’d constructed inside my head. Eileen’s comment regarding how fabricated social media tends to be comes to mind.

  Tig is a rather secretive, guarded guy who doesn’t have a large group of friends. When Tig introduced me to Marco, Lucas, and Leroy, I was wary. I remembered all too well that my sister overheard Tig’s male friends raucously praising his womanizing ways. I can’t imagine that Sybil would blow something like that out of proportion, but what I’ve witnessed so far are down-to-earth, sarcastic, and fun people, his business partner Claire included. They all welcomed me, no questions asked.

  As for Soraya, she’s been supportive from the start, disclosing that her best friend has a lot of baggage because of something terrible that happened a couple of years back. She urged me to be patient with him, stressing that she could tell that I mattered to him like no one else had in a very long time. She concluded by saying that it wasn’t her story to tell, and I didn’t mean to intrude, but she guaranteed that he’d come around... But will I? So far, I’ve kept my life completely separate from Tig’s; he accidentally ended up talking to Greer on the phone once, but that’s about it.

  I can’t help but smile when he trudges back my way. He comes to a halt with a smirk and captures my eyes. My heart somersaults and my eyes flutter shut for a second, taking in this man that I’d never expected to find attractive. I can't deny that he oozes sex appeal, and his raw sensuality and bad boy vibes are undeniably alluring.

  “What’s with the smirk, Mr. de Luca?” The tip of my tongue travels across my lips. Damn, I want to lock him up and hold him hostage for a couple of hours. I file that thought away for later, considering that we’re out in the open and I’d rather ravage his body, or have him ravage mine, behind closed doors.

  He shrugs. “I didn’t say anything.”

  I stick my tongue out, and he whispers, grazing my earlobe, “You don’t get to do that like a spoiled brat. That lethal weapon can be shoved inside my mouth or used on my dick, but that’s it!”

  The images that flash inside my head make my mouth water, and I rub my thighs together. I bite the inside of my cheeks to regain my composure and elect to ignore his comment. “Anyway… if you didn’t want to go, you should’ve told me so before we drove all the way out here.”

  “Nah, I’ll get over it. You’re right. You didn’t force me into anything.” His tone is determined and now turns playful. “Spending time alone with you was the right motivation. It’s the first time that we’re going away together and I…” He coughs lightly, stares intently, and I’m about to speak when he adds, “It’s cool that we were able to get away from the city for a couple of days. I needed some space from my everyday life.” He leans down and plants a tender kiss on my cheek.

  “Agreed.”

  “The yoga thing is an added bonus…” I don’t miss his sarcastic tone. “The goats taking a dump on the mat is just the icing on the cake, baby.” He swats my butt with his free hand. “Come on or we’ll turn into popsicles.”

  Minutes later, Tig is antsy as he peers through the brochure provided by the disheveled woman behind the reception desk. He suddenly lets out a boisterous shout of joy as he reads that he can attend the class without actually doing yoga.

  “But you’d have so much more fun doing so!” We’re having this discussion while the woman is trying to impart vital information about how this place works. Classes. Food. Goats. All the while, the tattooed man beside me continues grunting for no apparent reason.

  “Do I strike you as the kind of guy who’d enjoy putting my body in tortuous poses outside of sex?”

  “Tig, you strike me as the kind of guy who enjoys a challenge.” I take a peek at the fireplace in the expansive living room beyond the hostess. I spot shelves full of used books and, just like that, I know that staying here was the right decision.

  She hands me the key to our room. “Oh, and by the way, you’re in luck because Chance Bateman will be hosting an event tomorrow night… And he’ll have signed posters to give out.”r />
  “Who’s Chance Bateman?”

  “That would be me, sweetheart.” The drawl that escaped from the sexy mouth of the tall man standing behind me is as swoon-worthy as his looks, now that I’ve swiveled my head to ensure that I’m not daydreaming. “The failed professional soccer player from Oz who’s no wizard, but believe it or not, my posters still sell!” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, then supplies highlights of his past as an athlete whose career was cut short by injury. Once the cocky man is done bragging about his exploits, he realizes that Tig’s glaring at him. Instinctively, I reach for Tig’s hand and lace our fingers together. Warmth spreads throughout my needy body. I really don’t get his ability to ignite my lust.

  “And you’re teaching a yoga class?”

  “Oh, no. I came all the way from California to visit my Pixy.”

  “Is she an instructor?”

  The former soccer player’s answer comes in the form of a hearty laugh. “Pixy’s my goat! He’s definitely all male; he shags all the lovely females to breed babies for the yoga class thanks to Bree, my youngest. She’s allergic to goat hair…” His eyes become distant for a moment before adding, “So, I’m here to meet Pixy’s babies. My wife’s stuck in Hermosa Beach because of work.”

  In a blink of an eye, Tig’s face drops. I have no clue what changed, but his beautiful grin turns lopsided. I watch him struggle to swallow and heave a breath. Perplexed, I redirect the conversation and ask him how long he’ll be staying.

  Tig doesn’t utter a word and seems preoccupied when I tilt my head to glance at him. I’m not the prying kind, but I can’t leave it at that. He looks stiff and pained, and a tinge of sadness washes over me. I’ll have to remedy that once we get upstairs.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Chance Bateman. I hope we’ll get to meet Pixy during our stay.” We arrange to see each other after tomorrow’s class so that I can snap a picture of the infamous sex symbol—I mean the goat, not the soccer player—and Chance absentmindedly waves goodbye while he moves on to harmlessly flirting with the receptionist.

  “Let’s go to our suite, shall we?” With the bags on his shoulder, Tig leads the way and starts ascending the stairs up to the third floor.

  Despite its fancy name, the pictures on the website showed a large bedroom with a private bath, which is a luxury that I refuse to compromise on. How people can share bathrooms with strangers is beyond me.

  It’s a good thing I didn’t have to confirm with Tig prior to booking it. He simply didn’t have much of a say in this since I treated him, claiming that I owed him for all the time I’ve spent at his apartment. Consuming his food. Borrowing his tee-shirts. Christening every inch of his place.

  He puts the bags down in the doorway as I take in what will serve as our bedroom for the next couple of days and chortle. “Oh, this is… cozy.” My voice is half-joking, half-disappointed.

  “Rustic, borderline spartan, you mean?” He counters, then follows me into the bathroom, where I start sorting out my toiletries on either side of the vanity. I shiver when his arm wraps around my waist; his chin rests on my shoulder as his scruff rasps against my neck. Both looking in the bathroom mirror, we lock eyes. “It’s a barn, Alie. What did you expect?” His voice is low and subdued. He coughs. “What do you say? Wanna buy a signed poster from Mr. Chatty later, huh?” His throat is scratchy and he sounds like he does when he wakes up in the morning, paired with an edge that I’ve never heard.

  “Mmm… no. Why?”

  “Well, maybe I’m mistaken, but your cheeks are pink. Considering how fit you are, it can’t be from climbing the stairs, and I doubt that it’s from the cold. You sure seemed to enjoy his company.” He swallows hard. “Maybe you have the hots for the guy.”

  I stop what I’m doing and lace my fingers with his. “Are you jealous?” I joke, incapable of imagining that he is. He shrugs off my question, and I give him a peck, relieved that his gloomy mood shifted to a more cheerful one. “He’s not my type, anyway.”

  “Oh, please. Chance’s every woman’s wet dream, just like Graham is!”

  “You should know by now that I’m not every woman, Tig de Luca.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Aliénor.” The fact that he can’t quite pronounce my name is really cute, although he wouldn’t appreciate that adjective any more than sweet.

  To prove how preposterous his assumption is, I make quick work of his belt, zipper, pants, and boxer briefs and, in turn, he confirms that he got my not so subtle message. Steamy. Efficient. Fast.

  God, I love quickies when they’re synonymous with good sex!

  “You always have to have it your way, my alpha princess. Such a hot and messy quickie from such a neat control freak!” he mocks me. “You’re my favorite control freak, Alie,” he concludes and his mouth crashes to mine, stopping me from arguing that there's a difference between being organized and being a control freak. I’m so blissed out from our quickie that my resistance is soon forgotten.

  With that, I pat myself on the back for following Eileen's advice.

  This trip was a success... I mean, if you ignore that Tig bailed on the class as soon as the instructor allowed it. So, he basically watched me make a fool of myself contorting into questionable poses while trying to dodge poop from the wandering goats. I even had my picture taken with the infamous goat, aka Pixy, and his hot owner on the second evening, because annoying Tig was too tempting.

  Before breakfast on the final day, I pop one eye open in the wee hours of the morning and realize that Tig’s been awake, watching me sleep for God knows how long. My hand automatically flies to the hem of my tee-shirt to make sure it’s securely fastened.

  “Stalker, much?” I scoot closer to him.

  His thumb caresses my cheek, and he kisses my temple. What a sweet gesture. What a gentle gesture. What an intimate gesture. I sigh, taking it in, and my hand ventures under the covers to take advantage of his morning wood. In a swift move, he catches my hand and makes a tsk noise to stop me. He closes his eyes for a moment, and I'm so astonished that he denied me that I remain quiet. At first, I think that he fell back to sleep. When he opens them again, a myriad of emotions flashes in his brown eyes. Pain. Hurt. Longing.

  “Tig, what's wrong?”

  “You terrify me, Aliénor.”

  “What?” My mouth is suddenly so parched that it comes out as a strangled cry.

  He redirects my hand, resting it over his fast-beating heart, and sighs so forcefully that it tears my heart in two. What the hell is going on? He can't be breaking up with me, right?

  A cold sweat breaks out, and I worry the corner of my bottom lip.

  “My name is Theodore Ian Gregory de Luca. Soraya gave me the nickname Tig when we were kids.” Oh, no wonder I found it odd; it’s a nickname. My mind runs wild, trying to figure out what’s the point of his confession until... “That’s what my wife always called me. Her name was Delia.” A silent tear rolls down his cheek. I had no idea that he'd once been married. His face is ruddy as he stares at me. His body is motionless as he faces me. His thumb is soft as he caresses me.

  “She died.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Boys Don’t Cry

  Tig

  After catching me up on her pregnancy, I’m finally able to share some highlights from my yoga retreat with Soraya. All the while, reruns of General Hospital, a show that Graham’s obsessed with—don’t ask!—are playing in the background. Apparently, she’s gotten into the habit of watching it when she misses him.

  “I hadn’t had that much fun in a long time.” I chuckle, remembering tidbits from my trip with the French girl who’s taken up a lot of space in my life lately. From the cocky Aussie soccer player who flirted with my girl, to my reluctance to do yoga, and let’s not forget the numerous goat-pooping incidents. “No, no, no, wait. Actually, I had a lot of fun when Alie and I went to see that stand-up comedian and also when we went back to the karaoke joint.” My eyes look away. The karaoke led to her spending th
e night and us fucking like rabbits—and not stopping since.

  I’ve been on a roll since arriving here, hyper from the bottomless espressos that she’s provided, along with homemade strawberry shortcake. At last, I lead to what I’ve been struggling to reveal since returning from my trip with Alie: my most intimate admission. “I told Alie…” I trail off, unable to carry on. I’m pretty sure that my best friend doesn’t need subtitles, so I continue before she gets a chance to interrupt me. “The cake’s delicious, by the way. You’re no Ethel, but that new cooking class really shows.” I’m approaching a sugar rush since I’m not used to eating so many sweets.

  She watches me intently. “What? You mean I used to suck at baking?” Her questions are followed by her stuffing her mouth with two giant spoonsful of the delicious cake. She kept her voice low because Lorenzo is sound asleep in his room, but unnecessary worry that I haven’t heard in a while crept in… must be the hormones messing with her mood.

  Graham is at the gym, his usual Sunday routine, to blow off some steam after a stressful week at work. Unfortunately, it’s one of those rare weekends where Chloe is at her mother’s, so I won’t get to see her until her birthday party next month. My young friend’s been so busy with school and extracurricular activities that we’ve barely had a chance to text. I do understand that, with her growing up, I’m not her top priority, but I miss her.

  “Don’t twist my words.” I grab the cup, half-full with lukewarm coffee, and cross her expansive living room to reheat it in the microwave. “I said what I meant: your cooking class paid off. It was a good investment.” I shouldn’t have so much coffee in the middle of the afternoon, though; I know that I won’t be able to sleep later.

  She shrugs, her smile long gone. “Anyway…” Her fingers twirl around a lock of hair that is shorter than usual, but that she’s continued to dye according to her mood. Blue is the trend. “Don’t think you fooled me, you know.”