“Are you serious?” Blossom gapes.
I nod. “I realized it was the mating scent. That you and I had … potential.”
My parents had explained how mates work for werewolves. How when someone smells amazing, that means The Clawed One is identifying them as a potential partner. Unlike some mythics, werewolves can scent more than one possible mate,which means a potential partner doesn’t mean they’re the only option.
But it’s hard not to at least pay them attention.
“When I hit puberty …” Her eyes widen, and even in the low glow of the half-moon, I spy a blush darkening her cheeks. “Oh my fucking goddess! Are you telling me you smelled my firstperiod?”
Blossom’s embarrassment has me wanting to strip her bare and do all manner of depraved things with her until she’s burning alive with blushes.
But I settle for a shrug. “I smelled all your periods. It’s a natural part of having a uterus. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
The little wood witch presses her palms to her cheeks, as if that could cool the inferno radiating off them.
“I need you to shut your mouth,” she groans. “Teenage Blossom is dead. Literally. I just felt the ghost of her leave my body, murdered by mortification.”
“You’re cute when you get dramatic.” I drag my hands up and down her sides, enjoying this simple act of touching her.
And Blossom doesn’t bother to stop me. Or to magically chuck an apple at my head.
This feels like progress.
“And am I the only potential mate you’ve met over the years?” she asks after a few beats of silent contemplation.
Not sure how she’ll respond, I slowly shake my head. “There’ve been two more. Both times, I tried dating them. They were both nice. But …” When an explanation doesn’t immediately come to mind, I trail off as I reach for an answer that won’t send her running.
“But what?”
I slip my hand up her chest, pressing flat against her pounding heart. “They weren’t you.”
Blossom scowls, but instead of pushing me away, she flattens her palm over mine, holding me in place. “I don’t get it. You’ve always been a dick to me. If you liked me, why didn’t youdosomething about it?”
“I wanted to,” I admit. “But you were thirteen. I was sixteen. You were my best friend’s little sister. And you might not have realized this, but your dad was always more of a parent to me than my uncle was. I knew if I pursued you and messed it up—which I think we both know I would have because teenage Manny was a mess—I would’ve lost Heather and Root, along with you. So, immature kid I was, I decided to act like an asshole to keep you away from me.”
Blossom glowers at me. “You did that spectacularly.”
I can feel my rueful grin. “By the time you were old enough to date, you hated me. I’d screwed myself over.”
She slaps my chest. “You told all the guys I dated in school that I was high maintenance and whiny!”
I grab her palm and bring it to my mouth for a kiss. “I was a jealous asshole.” Needing a taste of her, I drag my tongue over the lines on her hand, like a horny palm reader.
Blossom gasps and squirms, which has her ass brushing my cock. A groan rumbles from my chest, and the witch freezes. Not that it helps when I can see how her nipples pebble against the thin cotton of her T-shirt.
“Can you forgive me?” I rasp, tense with restrained lust and fear of her answer.
She stares down at me, face unreadable.
As I wait for the final dictate, I catalog every piece of Blossom I can—from her round, flushed cheeks to the flare of her hips.
If she turns me down, what will that mean for the future? More avoidance? Will we be able to go back to our competitive banter?
I’d rather argue with Blossom for the next five decades than have her leave the room whenever I walk in.
Don’t cut me off. Please. Don’t shut down?—
“I’m on birth control.”
