Page 46 of Knot Their Starlet

“What’s going on in your head?”

God, I don’t think I can fucking look at him right now.

His eyes are like glittering pools I can dive into. I could drown in them so easily. Never coming up for air.

And his lips. His fucking lips that I can never stop thinking about. Not after they uttered those magic words two and a half years ago.

Please—please help me, Eli.

And help I did.

By kissing the fuck out of him like I want to do now.

Glancing over my shoulder down the deserted hallway, I grip his shoulders and push him further down the hall and around a corner. His skin is so fucking soft.

“What’re you doing?” he hisses through clenched teeth, his eyes going wide as his bare back presses up against the cold wall of a dark alcove.

I don’t answer him with words.

My answer is my lips slamming down onto his like a starving animal. It takes all the control I have not to reach up and drag my hands through his hair. That would be too noticeable.

The hate that flares hot in my gut turns into a fuel I pour into the kiss.

This is all I can have from him. Stolen moments in dark hallways and grimy alleyways.

And even then, I’ve only had a handful of these moments outside of his heat. Probably for the better. But still. I can’t help it.

Beck’s burnt caramel perfume explodes out from him, swirling in the air and making the kiss taste like fucking candy.

His hands twist into the collar of my shirt, almost like he doesn’t know whether to pull me closer or shove me away.

It takes him a few seconds—seconds I use to suck his bottom lip between my teeth—but he makes his decision.

With a quiet growl I can’t help but find adorable, he flattens his hands against my chest—a chest I know he likes feeling up during his heat—and pushes me away.

There’s a flash of frustration in his bright eyes as his hands linger on my muscular form. That frustration only grows when my lips quirk up into a lazy smile.

“We—we can’t do this anymore.”

His words are like a bucket of ice water. No—they’re like being thrown off a boat and plunging into the Arctic Ocean.

The soft skin of his shoulders feels like it burns my hands, and I drop them to my sides. They instantly clench into fists.

Everything good about me can be traced back to Beck. He made a joke years ago about how I wake up and the first thing I do is clench my fists. He’s not wrong.

His rejection? It feels like he’s ripping part of my soul from my chest.

“Shit,” Beck curses, blinking up at me like he can read my mind. Because he probably can. I don’t know whether it’s an omega thing or a Beck thing, but he knows me.

And I don’t want to be known right now.

I feel like I’m laid bare, no defenses left to protect me from getting my heart stomped on.

“I don’t—I don’t mean this,” he says, gesturing between us, his brows drawn down in confusion. Shadows swirl in his normally bright gaze. “Well, not all of it. Just—just the part where something happens and we do—we do that instead of talking.”

My heart feels like it’s on a rollercoaster as I hang onto each of his words.

The relief that comes from the start is quickly drowned out by the dread I feel at the thought of having to talk about my feelings.