Page 33 of Written in Scent

He realizes what he’s doing a heartbeat later and his whole body goes rigid. He jerks away, rising to his feet so fast that his glasses slip farther down his nose.

One hand extends toward me, palm up, trembling. His voice is rough, strained, when he finally speaks.

But I can’t hear the words yet, blood pumping through my body and slick filling my panties too loud in the silence. All I know is the whine that leaves me again, fuzzier this time, and the way my body already leans toward him like it has forgotten every rule I ever set for myself.

I take his offered hand, my fingers curling tightly around his, and I don’t let go. I let him pull me up to my feet but lean against the stacks anyway. Another muted whine slips from my throat, trembling in the narrow space between us.

He bends down to my height, his free hand braces against the bookshelf beside my head, gently caging me in. His palm cups my cheek with surprising tenderness, his thumb brushing just above the fresh mark he left on my neck. His emerald eyes are dark and wide behind his glasses.

His voice comes out rough and strained. “Tell me what you need. What can I do to help you?”

I don’t answer him with words.

I fist both hands in the front of his sweater and pull him down to me. Our mouths meet, and the world narrows to nothing but him.

The kiss begins slow, almost reverent. His lips are more plush than I expected, tasting faintly of refreshing bergamot. For one heartbeat I feel the thoughtful scholar in him, then something wild and ancient breaks loose inside both of us at the same time.

The kiss turns deep and urgent. His tongue slides against mine and a bolt of pure heat shoots straight down my spine. I moan into his mouth, the sound vibrating between us, and he answers with a low, hungry grunt that makes my toes curl.

My hands slide up into his hair, fingers tightening in the velvety brown strands, pulling him impossibly closer. He lifts me as though I weigh nothing, pressing my back firmly against the shelves. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, ankles locking behind him, and the new angle lets me feel every hard line of his body against mine.

Heat floods through me in waves. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive. Every place we touch sparks with electricity.

His hands roam over my hips and thighs, gripping, stroking, learning the shape of me like he’s memorizing every inch. I’m drenched between my legs, aching so deeply it almost hurts, a slick, desperate need that drowns out every careful plan I have ever made. My pussy clenches around the feeling of emptiness and it feels wrong, wrong, wrong.

This is not supposed to happen. I came here to study, to stay focused, to keep my life small and mine. Yet right now all I want is more of him. More of this. More of the way his scent wraps around me like a storm I never saw coming.

He rocks his hips forward just enough to press against the aching center of me and another moan tears from my throat. I am trembling, lost. I have never felt anything like the raw, overwhelming pull that has taken over every part of me.

My heart races so hard I can feel it in my throat. My thoughts keep fracturing into pure sensation, the warm press of his chest, the delicious scrape of his stubble against my cheek, the way his fingers dig into my thighs like he’s afraid I might disappear.

His hand slides between us. He lifts my skirt and slips his fingers beneath the edge of my panties, stroking through the slick heat there. Pleasure explodes behind my eyes. An electrifying sensation shoots through my core, so intense my back arches and I cry out against his mouth.

A rough sound tears from his throat. He pulls his hand back, brings his fingers to his mouth, and tastes me.

The sight of it sends another wave of desperate need crashing through me. His eyes flutter half-closed as he savors the flavor, a low groan vibrating in his chest. I can see in the darkening green of his gaze that he is barely holding onto his control.

He pulls back with visible effort. His breathing is ragged and his eyes are dark with conflict. For several long seconds he simply stares at me, as though he’s fighting his own body. Then something shifts in his expression. Clarity returns, even if only partially.

“Your perfume,” he says, voice low and strained. “It’s too strong. Every alpha in this building will smell you if we stay here any longer.”

He swallows hard.

“My name is Adrian Sinclair. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lost control like that.”

I try to focus on his words, but they keep sliding away. Another whine rises in my throat. I reach for him again, needing more, needing him closer.

Adrian makes a rough sound and scoops me up into his arms before I can protest. One of my arms loops around his neck without thought. He carries me out of the aisle and pushes through the heavy emergency stairwell door.

Cool air rushes over my heated skin as he descends the stairs quickly, his steps sure and fast. All the while I press my face into his neck, scent marking him again and again, breathing in ink and bergamot and rain until nothing else exists.

He bursts through the exit door into the parking lot. The late afternoon light feels too much after the dim stacks. He runs across the asphalt toward a sleek dark gray car near the far edge. My body bounces lightly against his chest with each stride.

We reach the car. He stops, still holding me securely against him.

My thoughts flicker in and out like candle flames in a draft. All I can focus on is Adrian’s scent still clinging to me, the safety of his arms, and the deep, instinctive pull telling me that I am finally where I belong.

Even as the edges of my awareness begin to soften and fade, one clear feeling rises above everything else.