Page 51 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

“You’re very distracting.” My voice comes out strangled. “The muscles are distracting. And the… the everything. The whole situation is distracting.”

“The situation where I’m naked in your bookstore?”

“YES, that situation, which is NOT helping my ability to process trauma…”

“You’re turned on.”

My face goes nuclear.

“I am NOT…”

“Sweetheart.” His voice drops even lower, rough and knowing, and something in my belly clenches at the sound. “I can smell it.”

SCANDALIZED.

I am SCANDALIZED.

This is a HATE CRIME against my dignity.

“That’s…” I sputter, grasping for words. “That’s a violation of… of basic privacy, of human decency…”

“I’m not human.”

“That doesn’t make it BETTER!”

“Your heart is going far too fast for someone standing still. Your face is flushed. Your hands keep forgetting what they’re doing.” He’s cataloging evidence now, calm and thorough, a scientist presenting findings. “And you smell like honey and lightning and want.”

“I smell like FEAR and ADRENALINE…”

“Those smell different. Sharper. More metallic.” He’s so close now. So impossibly close. “This is sweeter. Warmer. This is you wanting something you’re afraid to admit you want.”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not… you can’t just…” I put my hands on his chest to push him back, and that’s a mistake, because his chest is warm and solid and I can feel his heartbeat under my palms, steady and strong. “This isn’t fair. You have supernatural smell abilities. I’m operating at a significant disadvantage.”

“Would you like me to tell you what I smell like right now?”

“NO.”

“I smell like want too. In case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t wondering.”

“Liar,” he says again, softer this time.

His hands are still on my face. My hands are still on his chest. We’re standing in the romance section of my bookstore, surrounded by books about this exact moment, the tension, the almost, the breathless space between wanting and having.

This is insane. This is completely insane. He’s a supernatural creature. You’ve known him for two weeks. You…

“Fable.” His voice is barely a whisper. “Tell me to stop.”

I should tell him to stop. I should push him away, lock my door, spend the night having a very serious conversation with myself about appropriate boundaries.

Instead, I fist my hands in the nothing of his chest, he’s not wearing a shirt, he’s not wearing anything, and I pull him closer.

“I don’t want you to stop,” I whisper.