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I laughed, but I lifted my chin. Ronson had been treating my lips and i
He purred into my mouth, tongue delving, and I sighed, suckling and answering him with a lick of my own. Every spare second he'd bought from Niall was given to the kiss, and I wasn't nervous or shy at all. The foggy hours of the rut and heat had changed me. I knew this man, knew the hitch of his breath and the weight of his body and the taste of his hunger. I moaned as he stroked inside of my mouth, whined as his knees trapped my legs shut.
And slowly, the air between us filled with a thick, heavy sweetness. Ronson groaned as he pulled away, dropping fully onto me, burying his face in my throat.
My perfume. He'd wanted my perfume. He was dressing himself in it before leaving the nest. For his own comfort? Or for the betas?
I tucked my face into his silky hair, kissing aimlessly, and stroked the back of his neck with my hands.
"The dressmaker is coming today," Ronson rasped, not moving from on top of me.
"When did you have time to manage that?" I asked. It was difficult to catch my breath with him using me as a mattress, but I didn't mind.
"Put Beatrice onto it before you woke."
"It'll still be weeks before they have anything ready for me. And in the meantime, I have next to nothing to wear since you destroyed—"
"Rightfully. I have no regrets."
"—my undergarments."
"Good riddance."
The rogue didn't deserve my laughter but I couldn't resist, and Ronson purred, nuzzling against the thrum of my pulse.
"You're ru
He grunted but peeled himself away from me, stopping to sit up at the edge of the bed, scuffing his bearded jaw with his hand. "I think I'll shave for di
I tried not to pout. I liked Ronson's beard. It scraped a little, yes, but—
"And for dessert," he said, eyeing my lap with dark hunger.
My breath hitched, my perfume bloomed, and Ronson left the nest gri
"Well, I certainly see the necessity for a change in shape," Miss Priscilla Pettyfer said as her measuring tape pinched around my waist.
I flushed but held my chin high to keep from seeing the picture of us in the mirror. Miss Pettyfer, in her perfectly pristine flocked muslin and polished leather boots, was a delicate and miniscule woman who walked and snapped her dreaded measuring tape with authority, but spoke in the gentle and demure tones of a human amongst dragonkin.
And there I was, in a shabby and well-worn chemise, my skin marked and reddened, dark circles still shadowing beneath my eyes, and my usually drearily straight hair attempting to escape out of the braid I'd hastily arranged. Something about being so close to the sea seemed to coax my hair into an unruly halo of waves. I was precisely this human's opposite, and I wobbled in place on the cushioned stool where I was perched.
"Your waist is quite small. It would be a shame to drape it under swathes of fabric," Miss Pettyfer remarked, almost to herself. It took me a moment to hear the words for what they were—a compliment.
"Small?" I echoed, glancing into the mirror and seeing the point where the strip of brown leather hatched with black lines tightened around my waist.
"An hourglass figure was all the rage only a century ago," the seamstress continued, drawing the leather strap away and then holding one end to my waist and letting the other hit the floor.
Hourglass. Not plump. Not…all the other disparaging words I'd heard murmured from my mother's lips, or from someone like Adelaide.
"It's not…not really small," I said, reaching my own hands tentatively to my stomach. The soft swell of flesh hadn't vanished in the rut.
"It draws in," Miss Pettyfer said matter-of-factly, catching my wrists and then moving my hands to either side, settling them in the crook of my waist before it spread out to generous hips. "Dresses now are cut to create long, straight figures of women, but I've always believed the best dress will admire the woman within it, not reshape her. Your waistlines need lowered, for starters. But I think we must start beneath the dress." She stepped back and eyed me head to toe twice before lifting her keen gaze to mine. "Forgive my impertinence, Omega Cadogan, but would you lift your breasts for me?"
I ignored my blush and raised my hands to my chest, lifting the heft of my breasts and trying not to imagine what Ronson would say about this situation.
"Yes. I see. We need support, not constraint." Miss Pettyfer flicked her measuring tape and squared her shoulders. "Hold that position, please. We have a few more measurements to take."