The words don't make sense. Is he quitting? Forfeiting?
Then he leans in and inhales. A long, shuddering drag of breath right against the curve of my neck.
My knees give out. If he wasn't crowding me against the wall, I'd be on the floor.
Holy shit. Devan Morse is smelling me. In a library. On a Tuesday.
"Devan," I whisper.
"Yellow. Neon green. Pink," he mutters, voice thick. His hand fists in the front of my hoodie. "You're always wearing these bright fucking colors. Like a beacon. Like you're trying to kill me."
"It's... just a color," I stammer. "It's not even pink, it's like, salmon, it used to be red but I—"
"It's torture," he corrects. He presses closer. His thigh slots between mine.
The friction sends a shock up my spine and my toes curl.
Oh my GOD. Braiden was right. It was sexual tension. It was sexual tension this whole time and I'm an idiot.
"Sam." The way he says my name... "You smell... fuck."
He buries his face in my neck.
I stop breathing.
His nose drags along the sensitive skin below my ear. He's scenting me. Devan Morse, the ice king, is scenting me like a starving animal.
"Pine," I breathe, hands finding his biceps. "You smell like pine."
I sound like a Bath & Body Works commercial. Why did I say that? Why am I like this?
His teeth graze the pulse point of my throat.
I whimper. A genuine, pathetic, needy sound that I should be embarrassed by, but I'm too far gone to care. My hips buck forward, seeking him.
That breaks him. He growls, a low, guttural sound, and his mouth crashes down on mine.
His lips are hot, demanding, bruising. He tastes like dark coffee and desperation. He kisses me like he's angry at me for making him wait, like he's trying to devour me whole. The wet smack of our mouths fills the room.
I open for him instantly. No thought ofwait, we're rivals,wait, we're in a library. Just one word, slamming through me:Mate.
MATE. That's what this is. That's why everything feels like—oh god, I'm making out with my fated mate in a library study roomand I haven't brushed my teeth since this morning and I had garlic bread for lunch—
My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. I need him closer.
He groans into my mouth, tongue sweeping inside, tasting me. One hand yanks me upward, while the other drops to my waist, thumb digging into my hip bone. The bookshelf behind me shudders with the force of his body pressing mine into it.
"Mine," he mumbles against my lips, breaking the kiss to attack my jaw. "You're mine. Say it."
"Devan—"
"Say it!" He bites the spot under my chin. Hard enough to sting.
"Yours," I gasp. "I'm yours."
I'm agreeing to things. Big things. Life-altering things. I should probably think about this, but thinking is really hard when his mouth is doing THAT—
He shoves his knee between my legs, grinding up, and I cry out, head hitting the wall behind me. I'm hard. So hard it hurts.
