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Pulling back slightly, I watch her face as I pin her hands with one of mine and use the other to trace down her side, barely ghosting my thumb over the side of her breast.
She pinches her eyes shut.
“That’s not enough to save you.” I bring my mouth inches above hers. “They’ll grope you.” I move my hand over her ass and thigh before bringing it back up. She arches when my palm glides over her side, inadvertently pressing her core into my cup once again. Panting, she struggles against me again, but with my weight holding her captive, she simply rubs herself all over me.
“It’s hard this time,” she whines.
Goddamn right it is, baby.
“It’ll be harder in real life,” I tell her. “When they’re done groping you, they might grab your neck.” My palm finds her throat, and as I press the pads of my fingers against her skin, her eyes fly open, dark with something forbidden. Unable to controlmyself, I lower my face until my lips are nearly touching hers. “And then”—my lips scarcely smooth over hers—“they’ll take this mouth.”
“Austin.” She breathes my name as her entire body shakes beneath me.
“What, pretty girl?”
She locks her ankles behind me, and my eyebrows slam together as her thighs tighten and she twists her torso with enough force that she flings me onto my back. But with my hand still grasping her wrists, she slams down on top of me, and our mouths collide.
Groaning, I press my palm into the small of her back and grind into her cunt with my cup. I swear to god, she spreads for me, but then her startled gasp slaps me across the face.
I wrench my mouth from hers, sucking in a hard breath. “Shit, Quinn. I’m sorry.” What the fuck did I just do?
She scrambles off of me, like she can’t wait to get away from me, and I let her go, flinging my arm over my eyes to hide my shame. Her frantic breaths fill the space between us.
This is what happens when I lose control. I do stupid shit that has stupid consequences.
“Austin—”
“What’s up, assholes?” Dylan barges into the gym, and I force myself to get up.
I avoid Quinn’s gaze and nod at my brother. “Yo.”
In the mirror, I see Quinn lick her lips, but then her face scrunches in confusion. Her eyes find mine and then quickly jump away. She mumbles a hello to Dylan and makes some excuse to leave, to run away from me. Quinn grabs her things and leaves.
And she never comes back.
That bothers me more than it should.
Twelve
PRESENT DAY
QUINN
The dean was merciful, if not a little patronizing. To stay on track, all I need to do is find another internship. Although I won’t graduate at the same time as everyone else, at least this won’t set me back an entire semester. Which would be great...if not for the fact that four of the accounting firms I’ve called aren’t hiring and the two that are refused to give me an interview. It doesn’t take a genius to guess why. Mr. Mosley has a lot of friends, and the CPA world is small. I’ve been so focused on the big firms that I haven’t tried the mid-size ones.
There are still plenty of opportunities. He can’t know everyone. I finish submitting my resume to two different companies and shut my laptop, moving to clean up the mess I made in the kitchen. It’s been over a week since I moved back into the beachside mansion. I’ve spent half of that time trying to find a job and the other half making enough scent rollers for a wedding order I received.
This morning, I made my three favorite lines—my private collection I’ll never sell. The mere thought of another omega with these scent rollers makes me ragey. The house smellslovely, my attempt to recreate my scent matches’ scents producing a near perfect imitation.
But something is still missing.
I glance out of the window as I finish washing the last of my tools, leaving them to air dry on a towel. The sun glitters over the water and all but begs me to come in. With a sigh, I head to my room. I can’t stay in the house all day. I grab my swimsuit but stop when I spot the box of things for my nest.
Almost as if compelled, I drop to my knees and gingerly open the lid, shifting through the soft blankets and strings of lights until my fingers close around familiar fabrics. I tug the shirts out—three of them, the only things I allowed myself to steal from my stepbrothers—and bring them to my nose. The material stifles the pathetic whine that spills from my mouth as cedarwood, rain, and amber fill my nostrils. Their real scents are a hundred times better than any perfume I could ever create. I rub my face on their shirts, like an addict trying to find traces of drugs, and inhale again.
God, even after all these years, they smell so wonderful. I know if I stay here for too long, basking in the scents, I’ll start dreaming things I have no business fantasizing about. Sadness clenches inside my chest as I pull the fabric away from my face. Tears prick the edges of my eyes. Carefully, like the shirts might shatter if I’m too rough, I tuck them back into the box. I ache to clutch them to my chest, but I’ve tortured myself enough for one day.
With slow movements, sadness making my muscles sluggish, I pull on my suit. I grab a towel and slide into my flip-flops before running from my room, fleeing like a beast is chasing me. I suck in a deep breath of briny air as soon as I burst onto the back patio. The agony inside my chest subsides and I shake my head.
