It’s not who I am.
When I think about it, it seems very likely that what I’ve been doing these past few months is trying to catch feelings for a man I’ve never scented. And all because I’ve let him have access to my body.
In some ways, it makes sense. I’m very much a relationship person. I always have been. When I’ve been with people sexually in the past, I’ve always been in romantic relationships with them. I thought it was because I’m a bit of a nerd, a bit scared of everything, and as such, I’ve always been overly aware of the risks associated with hooking up with strangers, but maybe it’s not that.
Maybe for me, sex and feelings aren’t two separate things.
Maybe that’s what’s messing me up?
In the early hours, it seems clear to me that I should put a stop to the sexual side of things with the lord. It’s the obvious thing todo. It’s not like he gets any real sexual gratification from it, and he’s been plenty useful helping in the library now, so I’m sure he won’t mind.
When I think about it soberly, it’s clear that crossing the line with the lord was a big error in judgment on my part. Aside from everything else, he’s a Casanova alpha, and I’m not someone who enjoys having my heart mangled.
The trouble is, in the day, when the library is sunny and warm, the lord looks like a snack. A decadent, delectable, indulgent sweet treat. A gourmet dessert that tastes like all my favorite things. A sugar-laden, chocolatey concoction that I know full well is bad for me. It’s unhealthy. It makes my blood pressure spike, my energy crash, and causes the worst heart palpitations. It’s no good for me, and I know it. It should be avoided at all costs, or at the very least enjoyed in moderation.
Every day, I wake up determined that today will be different. I give myself lengthy pep talks, reminding myself to be strong. To be disciplined. To show a modicum of restraint. I promise myself that I’ll ask him about going off his suppressant, and tell myself that I’ll say no when he offers to touch me. I tell myself that I’ll think of other things when he looks at me, and that I’ll let my eyes tell him that this arrangement is costing me sleep and isn’t good for me anymore.
It’s just that when I see him, when I’m in the same room with him and he offers me that first bite, that gooey, heavenly first taste, I forget everything that isn’t him.
22
Alfie
Thelittlemouseisrunning late. I can’t say I care about being late for the event—the later we are, the less time we have to be there—but I am looking forward to showing him what I bought for him.
I depress the tiny brass button, and the velvet lid of the box flicks open. The necklace inside gleams, thin shards of light refracting from gemstones and throwing pastel rainbows in every direction.
I close the box quickly and try to ignore the pit in my gut. It’s a lot, but it’s not too much,I tell myself.The mouse will understand what it means.
He won’t read anything into it. He knows the game we’re playing. He’s a mischievous man and loves playing the role of my partner. He told me so yesterday. He said he enjoyed the way everyone looked at him at the fucking fundraiser immensely. He said it healed something in him, something that got broken when his beastly ex-boyfriend took off with his brother.
So no, I’m not worried that the necklace is too much.
He’ll understand the intention behind it completely.
A voice clears behind me, and I turn, raising my brows expectantly. They freeze halfway up my forehead, and I’m dimly aware of my jaw dropping.
The little mouse looks nothing like he usually does. Nothing at all. Usually, he wears sneakers, jeans, and loose-fitting sweaters. He wears his hair curly, unruly, and left to its own devices.
Tonight, he’s wearing wide-legged, high-waisted black trousers and boots with a significant heel. He’s tall for an omega on a good day, and tonight, he’s towering. Long and languid, stretched out to infinity.
His top is sheer. See-through. Skintight black lace that highlights the slightly broader than expected breadth of his shoulders and leaves nothing to the imagination.
All that’s impressive, but it’s nothing compared to his face. His face is beautiful. A dear assortment of features that suit him so well. Kind, curious eyes. An adorable upturned nose that makes him look like he’s permanently up to no good. Soft, fleshy lips that are usually arranged in some form of smirk or smile.
Tonight, he hardly looks recognizable. His hair has been tamed, scraped back off his face and held in place with pomade. It looks darker than usual, slick with a high shine that makes me feel confused for some reason. His skin is clear, pale, and glowing. His eyes are hidden by a mask that was made for him. It must have been because it clings to him like a second skin, molded perfectly into the peaks and troughs of his eyes and nose. It matches the lace of his top exactly.
He’s used kohl to line his eyes, thick black smudges that have erased humor and sweetness and replaced it with something altogether different.
“What do you think?” he asks, twirling all the way around, flexing his hands so they’re turned up and away from his body as he spins.
A barrage of words comes to mind, but I’m delayed. Tongue thick in my mouth. Fog denser and heavier than usual.
“You’re…lovely,” I manage after a pause.
“You look good too. Jeffery really got the length of that jacket right on you.” He narrows one eye, touching his forefinger to his thumb and holding his remaining fingers up. “A perfectly balanced silhouette if ever I’ve seen one.”
He looks at the box in my hands and his eyes glint, obsidian glittering behind a curtain of lace. “Is that for me?”
