Our conversation haunts me over the next four days, filling every corner of my mind as I go through the motions of traveling and film study and skating. By the time Ashton and I are doing our weight training on Wednesday in preparation for game night Thursday, Carys’s words have carved themselves into my bones.
Not just that she’s way more concerned about how getting involved will blow back on me than any consequence she might face. Not even that she’s so convinced Ares will skin me alive the moment he finds out. No, the thing that’s driving me to the edge of my sanity is the fact that she’s inexperienced. Even now, her words bounce around my head.
I’ve not been with anyone like that.I’m… I’m a virgin.
Anyone. Not once. Virgin.
Holyfuck.
It’s not enough that’s she’s my scent match, that my very bones call out to claim her, own her, bury myself into her until our scents are so entwined no one can hope to detangle them. It’s not enough that she’s a goddamn bombshell with that blonde hair the perfect length to wrap around my first and those legsthat go on for days and will look exquisite wrapped around my ears as I eat her out.
No, I now have the intimate knowledge that—despite being absolutely irresistible to any person with half a brain and blood in their veins—she is completely inexperienced and untried.
Good god, to know I’ll be the first Alpha to ever knot her? The first person to see the way she stretches around a cock or to hear the noises she makes when she orgasms?
My stomach clenches, and my scent pulses out from me. I ignore it. It’s not uncommon for any of us to scent while working out, though it’s mostly from aggression or posturing, not arousal. My hardening dick is more difficult to disregard, but I don’t dare readjust it while spotting Ashton as he works through his bench press drop sets.
“Have you ever been with a virgin?”
The question pops out before I can call it back, barely loud enough over the pulsing music pumping through the weight room’s speakers. A few weights crash together across the room as Paxton finishes his circuit and he cleans up the free weights he pulled. My scent spikes again, and I swallow down a growl of aggravation. Ashton raises an eyebrow, hesitating for nearly a minute before he pushes through the rest of the set. He doesn’t say anything until I’ve helped him put the bar back in the rack and he’s sat up, wiping the sweat off his brow.
“That’s a random as shit question,” he says.
I shrug. No way am I giving any kind of detail that might give away Carys right now, even to the player I’m closest to—outside of my own brother, at least. He squints, like he’s trying to see me better.
“Not in a long time,” he says.
Yeah, me either. Not since early college, and neither of us had been entirely sober at the time. It certainly wasn’t my bestshowing. All these years later, I can’t even remember her name. I’m sure it wasn’t an experience she wanted to recreate, either.
My stomach clenches at the thought of Carys hating her first time, of me being the reason why it’s awful. Those nerves settle in my stomach again, heavier than a ton of bricks. I want to puke.
Fuck, there’s no guarantee we’ll even get that far tonight. I’m just taking her out, for Christ’s sake, and not every date leads to sex. Not that I would know. I haven’t been on a date for nearly as long as I’ve been with a virgin. There’s no need when puck bunnies in every city throw themselves at us. Not to mention dating means serious, and just the thought of something semi-permanent has been enough to give me hives. At least until I went to grab my coat to go to the strip club with Jackson and instead found my scent match.
Ashton’s hazel eyes bore into me as he stands and crosses his arms. I switch out the weights to my lower impact arrangement and reset the bar before taking his spot on the bench. He looms over me where he stands just to the side, his gaze still dissecting me.
“You have a date with a virgin?” he asks without preamble.
Something too close to nervousness cuts off my throat. I sigh and mutter, “Something like that.”
Why had I even brought it up? It’s not like I’m going to divulge anything to him about any of it. Not Carys. Not the date tonight. Not the fact that she’s my scent match. All I’ve done is spiked his curiosity which will just make it harder to hide whatever we end up doing. Irritated with myself, I reach for the bar.
Ashton stops me, his grip on my wrist tight and demanding.
“Seriously?” he asks, a thread of surprise in the word.
I nod even as I clench my teeth, my scent pulsing again with my frustration. He raises an eyebrow and rocks back on his heels.
“Damn, man.”
Without another word, he drops my wrist and moves to stand at the head of the bench, carefully watching as I work through the drop sets. His hand stays held out, ready to spot the bar if needed even though we both know I’m not pushing any of my personal bests today.
I try to disappear into the burn of muscles and the thumping bass of the music, but I can’t quite manage to. Every time my mind starts to quiet, I feel Carys’s legs wrapped around my hips, smell the surge in her scent as I told her about jacking off into my own damn shirt that carried her orchid perfume. Lemongrass surrounds us all over again, and Ashton sighs.
“You don’t date,” he says.
“Nope.”
I pop the ‘p’ and rip through another set. But even admitting to historically being infamously antagonistic to attachment has me wanting to run out of the room and rinse my mouth out so I can’t taste the burning acid that’s crowding my throat. Ashton guides the bar back onto the stand. I slowly sit up, wiping the sweat away from my forehead with the hem of my shirt. The door opens, and more of our teammates filter into the weight room, everyone who opted to do physical therapy or extra drills first. Ashton doesn’t bother glancing at them as he perches on the bench next to me, his eyes boring into me and seeing way more than I want him to right now.
