Hani Pasha is an omega.
It’s the sort of revelation that makes Roger choke on his bourbon, coughing and hacking into his fist as the burn of the alcohol is amplified by going down the wrong pipe.
Swallowing another mouthful to lubricate his throat Roger can only stare at the imposing man who, at this moment in time,
is exuding pheromones so strong that Roger’s eyes are watering and his pants are too tight.
“I. Sir? Is this- Do you think this is wise?” Roger sets the now-empty glass down onto the table with an audible
Hani merely cocks an eyebrow imperiously.
Despite being hours away from his impending heat he is, as always, perfectly poised and perfectly dressed, legs crossed demurely one over the other as he pores over sheaves of paper.
“My dear Mister Ferris,” he says, and his voice is like silk. “Do I look like an omega who needs coddling? Hm? I am quite entitled to have a heat every now and then.”
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