Arion's arm wrapped around Dean's waist like a steel band, but his mouth was soft, trailing absent kisses along Dean's throat column. Dean was rigid, his mind a battlefield between the absolute mortification of the chat and the heat pooling low in his belly.
"Arion," Dean managed, his voice strained. "The chat. Your cousin is probably escalating this entire disaster."
"Mmm," Arion hummed, the sound a low rumble against Dean's skin. He wasn't listening. His attention had been drawn to Dean's frantic pulse and the scent of his omega, which was agitated, embarrassed, and intoxicatingly aroused. "He can wait."
Dean's mantra, 'get the phone, don't get a boner,' was failing spectacularly on the second part. Arion's sleep-warm body was a furnace at his back, and the dominant alpha pheromones rolling off him were a direct challenge to every rational thought Dean possessed. He was a dominant omega, damn it. He was supposed to have better self-control.
