Dax hadn't meant to lose the last thread of restraint. He'd sworn he wouldn't. Sworn he'd keep his head, keep his discipline, keep the royal suite from turning into a battlefield made of sheets and instinct.
But one look at Chris: flushed, trembling, panting around the ghost of the last orgasm and something deep and merciless tore loose inside him.
The scent hit him like standing too close to a forge, heat coiling in the air and wrapping around him. Sweet, sharp, rain-warm desperation threaded through it, a lure meant to drop any alpha to his knees. It cut straight through every barrier Dax had ever built. His lungs seized. His blood roared. His vision narrowed until the only thing in the entire palace was the omega pinned beneath him, shaking.
He inhaled again without meaning to, and the effect was brutal: his muscles locked, his pulse thundered, and a guttural growl crawled up from the bottom of his chest.
