"All of this is beside the point. You are my mate. There is no way we will be able to work together and what are you doing anyway exactly?"
"I was hired to help make sure that the marketing campaign for the Southeast Asia project is culturally appropriate and sensitive to the unique issues of that region."
"You are qualified for that?"
"I'm actually more than qualified. I'll be happy to send you a copy of my research and thesis project in this area. Which by the way included an extra year of study abroad for cultural immersion."
"How could you possibly have completed all of that by the age of twenty-two?"
"I finished high school in half the time usually required with an advanced dual enrollment placement, completed college at the same rate, and went straight to work on my master's. Everything done by twenty-three."
"If that's true, that would be a remarkable accomplishment."
"Why would I lie? And as I said I'll be happy to send you whatever verifications of my qualifications you need."
"I'll take your word for it. I'm not so insecure that I mind if my mate is a freaking genius."
Something in his expression shifts when he says it—not softening exactly, more like a door left open an inch. My chest does something involuntary and irritating in response. I redirect my attention to his collar.
"Good, I'm glad that's settled. Meanwhile, let's discuss logistics. We'll be in the same conference room, sometimes alone, reviewing your proposals."
"I don't think it's going to be that easy, not when you're my mate."
"I can separate the boardroom from the bedroom. I suggest you do the same, or you'll be looking for a new consultant, and the board will want to know why you chased off the best consultant available."
Every muscle in him locks. The stillness before action, the predatory pause just before the body commits. His brows lower, shadowing his eyes, breath held then released slow through his nose. He takes one step forward. Just one. The bungalow is not large. The distance between us drops by half.
"You believe," he says, each word measured and clipped, "that I can sit across from you for eight hours? Side by side with my omega, your scent calling to me, slick and ready, your mind sharp and your body denied to me, and not drag you onto that conference table? Not push your papers aside and take you until the only project you remember is how to take my cock? Not knot you until you can't walk straight, not mark you as mine?"
My vision blurs at the edges, heat rising between my thighs, slick and tense. My spine softens one vertebra at a time against every order I give it. "We'll have to function as colleagues." My shoulders remain back, posture rigid despite the tremor building behind my knees. My hands want to shake; I lock my fingers behind my back. The impulse to touch him, to shove him away or pull him closer—to prove my control through physical contact—blazes through my fingertips. "You'll learn. Or you'll fail."
"Is it really that easy for you?"
"Yes."
The lie scratches my throat when I force it out. The suppressant is fading—the edge of my control thinning, becoming translucent, like code with a fatal error propagating through the system. Soon, the heat will crest, and biology will scream what my pride refuses to vocalize.
Roan moves. One hand cups my jaw, thumb pressing against the corner of my mouth. The touch burns, branding. My breathing shallows, but I don't blink. Don't lean into the touch, though my skin screams for more heat. Don't pull away. My body arches toward him involuntarily, centimeters of betrayal, before I lock my spine, muscles trembling with the effort. I almost lean into his palm, almost turn my cheek into the heat of his hand like a cat seeking warmth. Disgusting. I lock my knees. His thumb doesn't move. Just rests there, at the corner of my mouth, the pad of it warm and deliberate, as if he's memorizing the shape of me through that single point of contact. I become acutely, humiliatingly aware of my own lips.
"Liar," he whispers.
Then his mouth crashes against mine.
The kiss is a challenge, not a request. His tongue demands entry, and I allow it, rigid and tasting, accepting the sensation with analytic detachment even as my knees threaten to buckle. His teeth nip my lower lip, sharp and claiming. His other hand grips my hip, fingers digging into flesh, pulling me against the hard evidence of his arousal—thick and hot against my stomach, grinding with intent. The scent of alpha—claim, own, mark—floods my senses, drowning me beneath primal need.
He angles my head, deepening the kiss, and I almost surrender. Almost open completely, almost wrap my armsaround his neck and climb him like the lifeline he isn't. My fingers twitch behind my back, wanting to fist in his shirt, to haul him closer, to surrender the inches between us. The impulse blazes through my synapses, hot and dangerous. I almost moan into his mouth, almost bite his lip to draw blood, to make him pay for this trespass. Shut it down. Lock it down. My nails bite crescents into my hands, the pain grounding, keeping me collected while he loses himself against me, growling low in his throat.
Almost. Almost. So many almosts that I lose track of them like I lose track of my control. Almost...
He pulls back, breathing hard, pupils wide with hunger. A sheen of sweat glimmers at his temples, visible even in the dimming light. His hands hover at my jaw, my hip—not withdrawn, just suspended, held in check by my stillness, a fraction of an inch from my skin. I keep my face smooth, my own breath coming in controlled measures despite the riot in my chest, despite the slick heat gathering between my thighs, soaking my underwear, despite the way my body screams to follow his retreat.
"This isn't over," he says, voice dropped to a register that vibrates in my ribs. "I don't give up. You're my mate, Sharma. Before we leave this island, you will be my mate in every way. I'll have you begging for my knot, my mark on your neck, my cock so deep you forget every spreadsheet and strategy. I'll own you completely."
I step back. One step. Two. The space helps, but not enough. My heartbeat echoes in my ears, a drumline with nowhere to march but forward. I almost tell him yes. The word forms on my tongue, sweet and treacherous. I almost reach for the doorhandle to prevent myself from running after him when he leaves. I swallow the yes. Lock my hands at my sides.
My shoulders lift and drop, slow and deliberate, the gesture carrying everything my voice won't. "Still childish, Roan. Still assuming the world will bend because you demand it."
His jaw tightens, the muscle leaping. His hands clench, then flatten with deliberate slowness. He holds my eyes for a count of three—breath held, released slow, the restraint burning through the locked line of his shoulders—then turns. He pivots, shoulders locked high, and the door opens with a soft pneumatic sigh behind him. His spine is board straight as his feet stomp all the way down the beach path. He doesn't slam it. His hands flex at his sides, twice, before he lets them hang.
