Page 39 of Monster. Me.

I hear his heartbeat pick up subtly. I don’t want to look up yet. Without really thinking about it, I wrap my free arm around his waist and draw him in. He doesn’t resist, and before long we end up in a position where I’m sitting on the edge of the bed and he’s standing between my legs while I press my face against his stomach.

I can’t remember the last time I hugged someone, or that someone hugged me. Maybe my dad when I was a child.

"This feels so good," I whisper, still hiding my face in him. His scent, or rather the scent of the cherry blossom products he uses, fills my nose. His pheromones are blocked, of course, but I have my own ways of sensing past that barrier, and I know that he and I share something unusual.

"Thank you for giving me this. For the hug," I mumble.

Marlow doesn’t answer, but his free hand rises and slides across my back, then up the nape of my neck before threading gently into my hair. A sweet shiver runs through me, so intense that a soft groan escapes my throat. My entire body fills with a wave of pleasure, balancing right on the edge of bliss.

"Fuck… that feels good," I whisper. "Please don’t stop."

My own free hand begins moving along his back, tracing the line of his spine before settling in the dip above his ass. The motion is almost like petting a cat, long, steady strokes up and down. We stay like that, pressed together, our hands moving gently over each other's bodies. After a while, a new scent reaches me, faint but unmistakable. At the same time, I become aware of something nudging lightly against the upper part of my chest, something that definitely wasn’t there before.

Marlow is hard.

Oh. Wow.

The realization nearly steals my breath. Earlier my pheromones didn’t seem to affect him at all, but maybe my closeness does? My own arousal, already pretty high, spikes immediately. I turn my face slightly, lift his hand again, and kiss the inside of it this time. Kissing the back had been gratitude. Kissing the palm is hunger. I leave several bold open-mouthed kisses there.

Still, Marlow doesn’t stop me.

Growing more daring, I move my mouth down toward his wrist, instinctively searching for the small scent glands ABOs have there.

And that’s when I make a mistake.

My lips brush against scars.

I pull back and look down at his wrist. Several scars run across the skin, the kind that leave no room for doubt. They’re lengthwise, not sideways, the kind clearly intended to make the bleeding harder to stop.

A deep shock and sadness wash over me as I realize Marlow must have attempted suicide in the past, maybe more than once.

Unfortunately, Marlow notices where I’m looking. He immediately withdraws his hand from mine and takes two quick steps back. The sudden loss of that incredible closeness feels like having the air punched out of my lungs.

Our eyes meet for the first time in several minutes since I pulled him against me.

I stay silent because I have no idea what to say. This is something private, painful. Asking questions would be insolent. We barely know each other. It would be crossing a line I have no right to cross.

"I should go," Marlow says suddenly, his voice strained, and he turns away.

"Please, no," I blurt out, sounding desperate. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—"

I trail off because I’m not sure what exactly I shouldn’t have done. Hugged him? Kissed him? Told him how much his presence means to me? Or stared so openly at those scars?

"Rupert’s probably wondering what happened to me," Marlow mutters, though he doesn’t sound very convinced.

"Rupert," I repeat, swallowing hard. So now I know his name. "Your vector."

A moment passes before Marlow slowly nods.

"Please don’t go yet," I say quietly. "Please."

Silence fills the room.

Marlow hesitates visibly while my gaze drifts over him. He has an attractive build for an alpha, tall and lean, with broad shoulders, a flat stomach, and narrow hips. He’s wearing black skinny jeans and a mint-green tank top. His skin is pale, though faint freckles dust his forearms, something common among people with reddish hair.

I notice his nails are painted a pale translucent green. Altogether it creates a strangely harmonious picture.

"You… you’re a varia," I blurt out.