Page 41 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

“DON’T finish that sentence.”

“…that you’re not entirely unaffected by this situation.”

And the worst part, the truly unforgivable part, is that being called out doesn’t cool me down. It makes it worse. Heat pulses low in my belly, my thighs press together entirely without my permission, and I know, I know, he can track every second of it. The flush. The racing pulse. The slick, humiliating evidence of exactly how unaffected I am not.

Stop wanting him. Stop wanting the naked immortal wolf king standing in your stockroom. This is a solvable problem. People stop wanting things all the time.

I do not stop wanting him.

I’m going to die. I’m going to die of embarrassment in my own stockroom, murdered by mortification, killed by a naked wolf man who can apparently smell my arousal.

“You can’t just…” My voice comes out strangled. “You can’t just say things like that. It’s not fair. I can’t smell you.”

“Would you like to?”

“WHAT?”

“I’m just asking.” His eyes are definitely lighter now, gold bleeding into the gray. “If the sensory information would help you process this situation, I’m happy to provide it.”

“I don’t need to smell you!”

“Are you sure? You seem tense.”

“I’m tense because there’s a NAKED MAN in my STOCKROOM.”

“Would you prefer I put on clothes?”

“YES.”

“I don’t have any clothes here.”

“Then SHIFT BACK and GO HOME.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re still holding your breath every time I move, and your heart is racing, and you look like you’re about to either kiss me or stab me, and I want to know which one it’s going to be.”

I open my mouth to tell him that it’s definitely going to be stabbing, that I would never, ever kiss a naked immortal predator in the back room of my own bookstore, that the very idea is absurd and offensive and…

He steps closer.

Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Close enough that I can smell him now, even with my inferior human senses, pine and something wilder underneath, a scent that makes me think of forests and moonlight and things that run through the dark.

His thumb traces my lower lip.

Just that. Just a touch. Just the pad of his finger against my mouth, the lightest pressure imaginable.

But it sends electricity through my entire body. Down my spine, through my limbs, pooling hot and liquid low in my belly. My lungs forget their job. My eyes flutter closed without permission. Somewhere beneath the mortification, my underwear becomes a lost cause, and I hate that he probably knows the exact moment it happens.

“Fable.” His voice drops so low I feel it more than hear it.

“What?” Mine isn’t much louder.

“You need to tell me to go.”

“I know.”