Chapter 2 #2
Roan moves. One hand cups my jaw, thumb pressing against the corner of my mouth.
The touch burns, branding. My breathing shallows, but I don't blink.
Don't lean into the touch, though my skin screams for more heat.
Don't pull away. My body arches toward him involuntarily, centimeters of betrayal, before I lock my spine, muscles trembling with the effort.
I almost lean into his palm, almost turn my cheek into the heat of his hand like a cat seeking warmth.
Disgusting. I lock my knees. His thumb doesn't move.
Just rests there, at the corner of my mouth, the pad of it warm and deliberate, as if he's memorizing the shape of me through that single point of contact.
I become acutely, humiliatingly aware of my own lips.
"Liar," he whispers.
Then his mouth crashes against mine.
The kiss is a challenge, not a request. His tongue demands entry, and I allow it, rigid and tasting, accepting the sensation with analytic detachment even as my knees threaten to buckle.
His teeth nip my lower lip, sharp and claiming.
His other hand grips my hip, fingers digging into flesh, pulling me against the hard evidence of his arousal—thick and hot against my stomach, grinding with intent.
The scent of alpha—claim, own, mark—floods my senses, drowning me beneath primal need.
He angles my head, deepening the kiss, and I almost surrender.
Almost open completely, almost wrap my arms around his neck and climb him like the lifeline he isn't. My fingers twitch behind my back, wanting to fist in his shirt, to haul him closer, to surrender the inches between us.
The impulse blazes through my synapses, hot and dangerous.
I almost moan into his mouth, almost bite his lip to draw blood, to make him pay for this trespass.
Shut it down. Lock it down. My nails bite crescents into my hands, the pain grounding, keeping me collected while he loses himself against me, growling low in his throat.
Almost. Almost. So many almosts that I lose track of them like I lose track of my control. Almost...
He pulls back, breathing hard, pupils wide with hunger.
A sheen of sweat glimmers at his temples, visible even in the dimming light.
His hands hover at my jaw, my hip—not withdrawn, just suspended, held in check by my stillness, a fraction of an inch from my skin.
I keep my face smooth, my own breath coming in controlled measures despite the riot in my chest, despite the slick heat gathering between my thighs, soaking my underwear, despite the way my body screams to follow his retreat.
"This isn't over," he says, voice dropped to a register that vibrates in my ribs.
"I don't give up. You're my mate, Sharma.
Before we leave this island, you will be my mate in every way.
I'll have you begging for my knot, my mark on your neck, my cock so deep you forget every spreadsheet and strategy. I'll own you completely."
I step back. One step. Two. The space helps, but not enough.
My heartbeat echoes in my ears, a drumline with nowhere to march but forward.
I almost tell him yes. The word forms on my tongue, sweet and treacherous.
I almost reach for the door handle to prevent myself from running after him when he leaves.
I swallow the yes. Lock my hands at my sides.
My shoulders lift and drop, slow and deliberate, the gesture carrying everything my voice won't. "Still childish, Roan. Still assuming the world will bend because you demand it."
His jaw tightens, the muscle leaping. His hands clench, then flatten with deliberate slowness.
He holds my eyes for a count of three—breath held, released slow, the restraint burning through the locked line of his shoulders—then turns.
He pivots, shoulders locked high, and the door opens with a soft pneumatic sigh behind him.
His spine is board straight as his feet stomp all the way down the beach path.
He doesn't slam it. His hands flex at his sides, twice, before he lets them hang.
The latch catches behind him with a click that lands in the center of my chest and stays there.
I wait. Count to sixty. My hands shake now, the tremor starting in my fingers and radiating upward until my teeth chatter.
The warmth in my belly spreads, becoming a cramp, a fist of need closing around my uterus.
Slick gathers between my thighs, soaking through the cotton of my underwear, the chemical suppression failing hour by hour.
My vision tunnels at the edges, gray creeping in. I need those suppressants.
I collapse into the wicker chair by the window, the woven reeds creaking beneath my weight, digging diamond patterns into my shoulder blades through the thin fabric of my dress.
The sound is loud in the sudden quiet. I press both hands against my stomach, fingers splayed, digging into the fabric, breathing through my nose, fighting the biological tide that demands I run after him, submit, offer my neck.
The need claws through my abdomen, sharp and unrelenting, a cramp that doubles me forward.
The DNA suppressant replacement dose is lost somewhere in airline purgatory, probably thawing in a cargo hold, and without it, I won't make it through the week.
I won't make it through tomorrow. The fever is starting—low grade, but my skin burns with it, the sheen on my forehead confirming what I deny.
The independence I've built—line item by line item, spreadsheet cell by spreadsheet cell—teeters on a hormonal edge. Roan Vaughn thinks he'll win by force of will. He doesn't know my defenses are already bleeding out—hemorrhaging faster than I can patch the exposure.
The orange and red bleeding through the shutters press against my eyelids, and I let them close. Outside, the sunset drains itself dry across the veranda. Faster than my resolve. Faster than the last dregs of my chemical armor.
The wicker presses temporary tattoos of my failure into my skin. Outside, the waves crash—rhythmic, inevitable, indifferent to the shore's resistance. My body has the same indifference to my orders. And I am running out of walls.