Chapter 3 Sam #2
He shoves his knee between my legs, grinding up, and I cry out, head hitting the wall behind me. I'm hard. So hard it hurts.
"Fuck," he hisses against my throat. "I imagined this a thousand times... every possibility... but nothing came close." His voice cracks, raw and wrecked. "The reality of you. The heat."
Devan Morse has THOUGHT about ME—
His hand shoves under my hoodie, hot against my stomach. Slides up my ribs. "So soft," he murmurs, lips moving down my neck, heading dangerously, thrillingly lower. "Omega. My omega."
That word. My. Whatever voice in my head usually tells me I'm a fraud just... dies. I'm not the loud kid in the back of the class right now. I'm his. The smartest guy at Westbridge is falling apart in my arms, and I'm the only reason why.
Take THAT, imposter syndrome.
"Devan, please." My hips roll against his thigh. "Please, I need—"
He pulls back, just an inch. His lips are swollen, red, slick with my spit.
"I know what you need," he says. "You need to be claimed. You need everyone to know."
He spins me around, face to the wall.
"Devan!" I gasp, palms spread.
He presses his full weight against my back. He's massive. He shoves my hoodie up, bunching the fabric around my neck, exposing my skin to the cool air.
Then his mouth is there.
He kisses my shoulder blade. Hands grip my hips, locking me in place. He's shaking.
"Two years," he breathes against my skin. "Two years of watching you in these... these fucking bright colors. Trying to make me look. Trying to drive me insane."
"I wasn't—" He cuts me off with a grind of his hips. The rough denim of his jeans drags against me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning.
"Liar," he growls. "You wanted this. You wanted me to lose control."
He's right. I wanted him to look at me. I wanted him to lose his mind. I just didn't know why until right now.
His hand slides down the front of my jeans, fumbling with the button. The metallic pop is deafening in the room. He shoves his hand inside, past my boxers.
His fingers wrap around me—large, calloused, hot—and my vision whites out.
"Devan," I sob.
His hand engulfs me completely, palm rough against my cock. He strokes once, slow and deliberate, and I feel my own pre-come easing the way, hear the wet sound of it in the silence.
"So hard for me," he groans against my shoulder. "So fucking wet already."
His other arm wraps around my chest, holding me up because my legs have stopped working. He strokes again—tighter this time, twisting at the head—and a ragged gasp tears out of my throat.
"That's it," he breathes. "Let me hear you."
I can't help it. Every stroke pulls another sound from me—whimpers, gasps, broken fragments of his name. The slide of his fist is obscene. The bookshelf creaks with every buck of my hips.
"Quiet," he orders, but his voice shakes. "I need... I have to mark you."
He nuzzles along my neck. Finds the spot. My mating gland pulses. Aching.
I'm close. So close. The pressure is building at the base of my spine, coiling tighter with every stroke—
Footsteps.
The squeak of wheels. A cleaning cart, rolling down the hallway.
We both freeze.
Devan's hand clamps over my mouth, muffling the desperate whine that tries to escape. His other hand goes still around me, not releasing, just... holding. I'm, teetering on the edge, every nerve screaming for release.
"Shh." His breath is hot against my ear. "Don't. Move."
The cart squeaks closer. Pauses. I can hear someone humming, off-key and oblivious, just on the other side of the door.
I'm going to die. I'm going to combust. Devan's hand is still wrapped around me, his chest heaving against my back. I can feel how hard he is pressed against my ass. We're both frozen while my body screams at me to move, to thrust, to finish—
I'm going to get caught getting jerked off by my academic rival in the library and I'm going to have to transfer and my parents are going to be so disappointed—
The cart squeaks again. Rolls past. The humming fades down the corridor.
Devan exhales, a shuddering rush of breath against my neck.
"Now," he growls. "Where were we?"
His hand starts moving again—faster now, rougher, desperate—and I can't hold back anymore. His other hand stays clamped over my mouth as he strokes me with a single-minded intensity that leaves no room for thought.
"Do it," I manage against his palm, the words muffled. "Just do it."
He doesn't hesitate.
He bites down.
His teeth sink into the gland, breaking the skin.
Pain flares, sharp, then drowns in a golden rush. The world narrows down to this room, this man.
I scream, the sound muffled against his palm. I come hard, spilling over his hand.
Devan groans, grinding against my ass, shuddering.
He holds me there, teeth locked in my neck, riding out the aftershocks. We're both trembling. I'm gasping for air, his palm still pressed to my lips.
Slowly, he releases his bite. Licks the wound, a soothing, possessive stroke that sends shivers down my spine.
"Mine," he whispers against the wet skin.
He pulls his hand out of my jeans, messy with the evidence of what we just did. Wipes it on his black jeans without a second thought. Pulls my hoodie down, smoothing the fabric over my back, covering me up.
He spins me around.
I slump against the wall, sliding down until my ass hits the carpet. My legs refuse to hold me. I look up at him.
I just got mauled. By Devan Morse. In the library. On a TUESDAY.
Devan drops to his knees in front of me. He doesn't care about anything but me. He cups my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones. The storm in his eyes has settled into something quiet. Awed.
He rests his forehead against mine. The room smells like us.
"Real," he whispers. "You're real."
I let out a shaky, wet laugh, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "Yeah," I breathe. "I'm real."
I'm real. I'm here. I'm sitting on disgusting library carpet with come in my underwear and a bite mark on my neck and I just found my fated mate.
"And you." His thumb brushes my lip. "Are my mate."
Devan Morse. My academic rival. The guy I've spent two years trashing to my friends. The guy I'm competing against for the only thing that could make my career.
He's my mate.
"We're supposed to be enemies," I whisper.
Devan looks at the bite mark on my neck, visible just above the collar of my hoodie. A dark, possessive smirk touches his lips, the first real smile I've ever seen on him.
"Not anymore," he says. "Now, we're a problem."
Before I can ask what that means, the doorknob rattles.
"Hello?" a voice calls from the hallway. "Is someone in there? I have this room reserved for eight."
I freeze. I look at my unbuttoned jeans. This room smells like an orgy.
Devan stands, pulling me with him. He buttons my jeans with efficient, steady fingers, then pulls my hood up to hide the mark.
"Let me handle it."
I stand there, clutching my sleeves, and realize that my life as I knew it ended the moment that lock clicked shut.
I'm mated to Devan Morse.
I have to tell my friends.
Also, I'm pretty sure I have come drying in my boxers and I have to walk across campus like this.
Cool.