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Her super-soft cheek strokes my chest when I start to move, and when she curls into me, trusting me, something lines up, deep inside.
Instinct drags me to her collar.
Have to rub my scent all over her throat.
That’s when my mate shudders.
But not the good kind of shudder?
What?
Why?
When I loosen my grip, she pulls away, and the only thing that keeps down a barf-wave of rejection is the weird-ass déjà vu when I finally notice my mate’s brain-hurtingly pink jacket. “Those are my sister’s clothes.”
“Borrowed them.” She tugs the crop top over the T-shirt I wish wasn’t covering her stomach.
I’d drop to my knees and dip my tongue in her belly button.
No, wait. Save the button.
Easier to lift her.
Hook her knees over my shoulders. Get my hands under that juicy ass. Paste her thighs to my face and nuzzle into her hot, wet, syrup-dripping—
A whiff of Dany’s jasmine blindsides my brain.
Feels like my sister walked in on me jerking off.
I cringe, and my omega pulls away, holding out a hand before I can snatch her back.
“You must be one of my prospective mates?” she says, all cold and distant.
Frigid fingers squeeze the bone between my lungs.
What did I do wrong?
I felt her respond to my touch. The way she trembled. Her scent dripping. Melting into me. Making me melt with her sexy fucking softness.
Prospective?
“No. I am your mate. There’s three others. Or maybe four? I’m Dutch, by the way. The person, not the nationality. It’s a thing. But you can call me anything you want.”
She brightens until I think she’s going to laugh, and the ghost of her smile plucks my heart halfway out my chest.
But her smile dies before it can shine.
Instead, she scowls so nasty, I want to apologize for every wrong thing I’ve ever done from accidentally stepping on a stag beetle in fourth grade to eating Reese’s pre-game banana last week.
Have to be better.
“Whatever your name is, you can’t throw yourself at an omega.”
“You’re not an omega. You’re my omega.”
My mate.
Mine.
