Page 51 of Fake It ’Til You Mate It

My breath catches in my throat as his gaze locks on my face.

“Delicious.”

His voice is a deep rumble that has me shuddering. And, sure, I’m sitting on my countertop in my underwear, but I’m not cold. The opposite, actually.

When Max Lobo looks at me like that, I’m on fire.

He moves into me before I can breathe, his palm braced on one hip, the other curling under my chin to tilt my face up. For a moment, we just stare at each other, opossum and wolf.

Then he leans in, slow enough that I could stop him.

I don’t.

The kiss is careful at first, as if he’s afraid to startle me, but the second I sigh against his mouth, his restraint cracks. The world shrinks to heat and heartbeat and the taste of sugar between us. He tastes like sugar and pine and want

It’s dizzying.

I love it.

When he finally pulls away, he lifts his hand. His thumb lifts to the corner of my mouth, wiping away a smear of frosting he shared with me like it’s an excuse to touch me one more time.

“Don’t ask me to forget again, Honey.” His voice is barely a whisper. “I’ll do anything you ask of me, but don’t ask that.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

He’s right there. It would be so easy to confess. To tell him that there’s a reason why he feels possessive, and can’t resist the urge to kiss me.

I open my mouth, the words ‘I’m your mate’ on the tip of my tongue… but what comes out instead is, “I should shower.”

He takes a few steps back. “To wash the taste of me off of you?”

His perceived—and not entirely inaccurate—rejection has his words coming out as sharp as a knife.

I shake my head, desperate to blunt the edge. “Because I think the wolfsbane got in my hair and my neck is beginning to feel numb.”

That does the trick.

With a moment’s hesitation, Max lifts me up off the counter, holding me close. “Where’s the shower?”

I tap his chest. “I can walk up the stairs.”

“And I can carry you.”

“Max—”

“You’re impossible.”

“Ah, you love me.”

Max jolts, but he doesn’t set me down.

Me? I could almost kick myself for such a flippant quip. That’s what I do. I’m Honey Morgan. I have a sunny outlook on life but I’m as hardheaded as a dog with a bone. I rarely think before I speak, and even when I do, half of what I say is a smartass response.

I don’t actually think Max loves me.

Oh, no. The bigger problem is that I think that I love Max.