The Tyrant Alpha's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #1)(42)

I blink.

He wants me to answer? I don’t know.

“Well, maybe your wolf—”

He cuts me off. “It’s not just my wolf.” He sort of pounds his chest once with his fist. “I can’t leave.”

“Oh.”

A surge of something, something tingly, almost sparkly, rushes through me. My belly flutters.

“Well, um, we are perfectly safe here. Like you pointed out.” I sniff the breeze. “I don’t smell anything.”

He inhales, and his eyes drift shut. He groans softly. “I do.”

Now he blinks. He glares at me, tense, frustrated. “You smell like bread.”

“Thank you?”

I guess it could be worse. I try to casually duck my nose toward my shoulder and inhale. I don’t smell anything but fabric softener.

“Maybe you should come back to my cabin,” he says.

His voice lowers. His expression is somehow less alpha. It’s not exactly friendly, but he’s set aside the usual domineering bluntness. He’s trying for charm. It doesn’t quite work, but it’s interesting to see.

I’ve seen him look at females at the lodge like this, late at night. Then they follow him outside.

“No.” I swallow past the tightness in my throat.

“It’ll be good. I’ll do you, too, if you want.”

What does that mean?

There’s a rumble to the words. He strokes the tip of his fingers down my cheek, and while my brain spins, every inch of my skin comes alive.

“No, thank you.”

“Aren’t you curious?” he says.

Am I?

I can’t afford to be. I don’t want to be.

But sitting next to him is like sitting next to an energy source. Sensation arcs in the space between us.

He’s so strong, so above everyone else. We’ve lived together all our lives, but his orbit has never intersected mine. But now he’s here.

It’s like sitting on a jetty in a stormy sea.

The power makes you feel small and magical at the same time.

My body is responding. My belly swirls. My nipples rub against the cool cotton, creating an achy heat. My pussy lips swell. I press my thighs together as hard as I can, but the next time he inhales, his nose quivers.

His lips rise until they’re almost curved. “You are, aren’t you?”

“No. I—” I shake my head, but inside, my body hums in agreement. I clasp my hands until my knuckles blanch white. This is a bad idea. Dangerous. Stupid.

My wolf isn’t feigning sleep anymore. She’s alert and pissed and letting me feel it. Bad male. Go to the other female’s cabin. She huffs and turns her back.

Killian twists his torso, reaches over, and gently lifts my chin. Then he bends down and brushes his firm, dry lips against mine.

Time freezes.

I exhale a sighed, “Oh.”

And suddenly, I can feel it all at once, his touch shining a floodlight on the emptiness inside of me, the years of touchlessness after Ma and Da passed when I was fostered, the cold ache that settles into your bones, and remains, no matter how much your friends care for you when you’re grown.

It’s the place left when Ma no longer brushes your hair for a hundred strokes. When Pa’s no longer there for you to rest your head on his furry belly and scratch behind his ears.

It’s raw, always—still—and Killian’s touch exposes it and soothes it at the same time.

It’s what I needed.

What I missed.

And the thoughts don’t make sense, but it doesn’t matter because I’m rapt.

He draws his nose along the side of mine and then kisses my forehead. His hands stroke over my shoulders and down my back. He draws me closer. My fingers land on his bare chest. It’s hot to the touch.

My heart pounds. We’re both breathing heavily, and it stirs the air between us, creating a heat, an urgency.

An intimacy.

I let my fingers explore, slide up his pecs, and they twitch and tense. His lungs hitch.

I did that.

There’s a rumble in his chest, and I lay my cheek against it to see if I can feel it.

I can.

He smooths my hair, dropping a kiss to my hairline, the tip of my nose. I sigh and cling tighter, winding my arms around his neck, lifting myself so I can kiss him back.

This is perfect. This is designed. This can make up for it all if I let go, if I just give in to the mysterious swirling rising inside me.

He’s exploring, traveling from my lips to my temple to my jaw, as if he’s tasting the differences, as if he’s swept away, too.

We’re thigh to thigh, the shawl bunched and tented as we twist to reach each other. I want more. I want to touch everything. I grab his shoulders to lift myself, but my leg is stiff, and I can’t get a good enough grip. I growl, frustrated.

He chuckles. “I got you.” He picks me up and resettles me sideways in his lap, returning my hands to his shoulders and then massaging the thigh of my bad leg.

He kisses me, eyes closed, as he cradles me, and I feel floaty and surrounded and gobsmacked. I feel held.

He’s so strong. I run my fingers down his bulging arms, the veined tops of his hands, his hard knuckles. He has a fighter’s hands, a fighter’s body. But he’s docile beneath me. Patient. Coaxing.