Chapter 4 Devan
Devan
My hands shake so much, I fumble with the key to my dorm room.
"Let me," Sam says, taking it from my fingers. His voice is raspy.
I can't stop staring at the mark on his neck. My mark. A dark, purpling bite just above his collar. After two years of silence, of watching, of wanting—I claimed him.
The door swings open and we stumble inside. I kick it shut behind us. My dorm is a single, a perk of being a junior with a perfect GPA.
Sam pauses in the center of my room, taking it in. I see it through his eyes: sparse, minimalist. A desk with a laptop and neat stacks of textbooks. A twin bed with navy sheets pulled taut. No posters, no photos, nothing personal except a single picture of my parents.
And the three empty energy drink cans I forgot to throw away and the laundry pile I shoved in the corner this morning.
"It's very... you," Sam says with a small smile.
"Is that good or bad?"
"It's just... clean." He runs a finger along my desk, then looks up at me. "Like, suspiciously clean. Do you actually live here, or is this a front for your secret spy operation?"
"I cleaned this morning," I admit. "Before class. I had a... feeling."
Sam's eyebrows shoot up. "You stress-cleaned before our study session? That's the most adorable thing I've ever heard."
"It's not adorable. It's preparedness."
"It's adorable," he repeats, grinning. "You're adorable. Big scary alpha with the murder face, stress-cleaning his dorm room because he had a 'feeling.'"
I don't know what to do with adorable. No one has ever called me adorable. Terrifying, yes. Intense, frequently.
"I like it," Sam adds, softer now.
Sam Sharma is standing in the middle of my room, with my mark on his neck, looking at me like I'm something worth seeing.
"Are you on suppressants?" I blurt out.
Sam blinks. "Yeah. Heavy-duty ones. Have been since freshman year. Why?"
"Just..." You didn't recognize me. As your mate."
That explains it. Why he never smelled me the way I smelled him that first day. Why he never felt the pull that's been tearing me apart. It wasn't rejection. It was chemistry. A chemical barrier that's finally broken.
Sam takes a step toward me, then another, until he's close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. "What do you mean, recognize you? When?"
"The first day," I say, and my voice cracks. "You wore red and smiled at someone across the room, and my alpha knew. But you didn't see me. So I made you see me the only way I could."
Sam's eyes widen. "You knew? This whole time, you knew?"
I nod.
"Why didn't you say anything?" he whispers. "Two years, Devan. Two fucking years we could have—"
"You didn't know," I say. "You didn't feel it.
And I... I'm not good with words. With people.
I thought if I tried to explain, you'd think I was crazy.
Or worse, you'd pity me." I swallow hard.
"So I became the only thing you couldn't ignore.
The rival. The obstacle. I made sure you saw me, even if it was just to argue with me. "
Sam stares at me, processing. His scent shifts.
"I think..." he says slowly, "I think I knew too. I just couldn't let myself believe it."
He reaches up, touching the bite mark on his neck. "I've never cared about anyone's opinion the way I care about yours. I've never worked so hard to impress someone. I've never been so... obsessed."
"I researched you," I admit. "I know your class schedule. I know your coffee order. I know you volunteer at the campus food bank every other Thursday."
Instead of backing away, Sam steps closer. "What else?"
"I know you're brilliant," I say, the words tumbling out. "I know you work twice as hard as anyone else because you think you don't belong here. You do. You're the only person who's ever challenged me. The only one who makes me want to be better."
"I know you dated that beta sophomore year. Jason. I hated him."
Sam's lips twitch. "He was boring. It lasted three weeks."
"Three weeks, four days," I correct automatically, then wince. "Sorry. That's—"
"Hot," Sam interrupts. He steps closer, eliminating the space between us. "It's hot that you noticed."
His hands slide up my chest, and I shudder. "What else do you know about me?"
"Everything," I say. "And nothing. I know facts. But I don't know how you taste when you wake up. I don't know what your face looks like when you come. I've never done this before." I pause. "With anyone. I never wanted anyone but you."
Sam's eyes darken. "Never? Not even—"
"No one," I say. "There's only ever been you."
"But you've... researched?" There's a teasing note in his voice, but his eyes are serious, searching mine.
I nod. "I've read... everything. Every study on omega pleasure. Every paper on mate bonds. I know the theory. I just haven't had the opportunity for practical application."
Sam stares at me for a long moment. Then he bursts out laughing.
"Oh my god," he wheezes, clutching my shirt. "You did homework. You literally did homework on how to fuck me."
"It seemed... prudent," I manage. "Given the statistical likelihood that we would eventually—"
"Stop, stop." He's wiping tears from his eyes. "I can't. You're killing me. Two years of research. Were there flashcards? Please tell me there were flashcards."
"There were... diagrams," I admit.
Sam loses it completely. He's doubled over, wheezing, and I should be mortified—I am mortified—but watching him laugh like this, free and unguarded, makes something warm bloom in my chest.
"Devan Morse," Sam gasps, straightening up and grabbing my face in both hands.
"That is the most romantic, insane, deeply unhinged thing I have ever heard in my entire life.
" A slow smile spreads across his face. "I think I'm in love with you.
Like, actually in love. Not just mate-bond in love.
Regular, old-fashioned, you're-a-complete-weirdo-and-I-love-it in love. "
Then he kisses me.
Slow and deep. His tongue slides against mine, and I groan, my hands finding his hips, pulling him against me. He tastes like soda and mint and something Sam.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Show me," he whispers against my lips. "Show me your homework, Professor."
I lift him and carry him to my bed.
"I've dreamed about this," I murmur, hovering over him. "You, here. In my bed."
Sam arches up, seeking contact. "Devan, please."
I pull back, just enough to look at him. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes dark with want.
"Let me," I whisper. "Let me take care of you."
I start with his hoodie, peeling it off slowly, savoring each inch of skin. His t-shirt follows, and then his chest.
"I can't believe you're mine."
I press my lips to his collarbone, trailing kisses down his chest. He squirms beneath me, impatient, but I take my time. I've waited long enough. I'm going to memorize every inch of him.
"Devan," he gasps as I flick my tongue over his nipple. "God, that feels—"
"Good?" I murmur against his skin. "Tell me what feels good."
"Everything," he pants. "Everything you're doing. Don't stop."
I don't. I kiss the inside of his wrist and he shivers. He gasps when I nip at his hip bone. And he lets out a broken moan when I finally unbutton his jeans and slide them down his legs.
He's hard, straining against his boxers, a wet spot darkening the fabric. I mouth at him through the cotton, and he bucks up with a curse.
"Fuck, Devan, please!"
I hook my fingers in the waistband of his boxers and pull them down, freeing him. He's red and leaking, his thighs slick.
"I can smell you," I groan. "You're wet for me."
Sam flushes and turns his head to the side. "Don't say it like that."
I cup his jaw, making him look at me. "Why not? You're beautiful."
Before he can argue, I lower my head and take him into my mouth.
The sound he makes is a broken cry that goes straight through me. His hands fly to my hair, not pushing, just holding on.
"Devan, fuck, oh my god—"
He tastes like salt and musk and something sweeter underneath, something that's just Sam. I take him deeper, letting my tongue drag along the underside, feeling the vein pulse against my lips.
"Oh fuck," Sam chokes out. "Oh fuck, oh fuck—"
I pin his hips down with one hand—he's stronger than he looks, writhing under me—and hollow my cheeks, sucking hard. He wails.
I pull back to tongue at the slit, tasting the bitter-salt of his pre-come, and he sobs my name. His fingers are twisted tight in my hair, and that's good too. The sharp sting grounds me, keeps me present when every instinct is screaming to take, take, take.
"Devan," he gasps. "Your mouth—I can't—you're so—"
He can't finish a sentence. Good. I want to take his words away.
I take him deep again, letting the head of his cock nudge the back of my throat, and swallow around him. The noise he makes isn't even human, a strangled, keening thing that makes my own cock throb in my jeans. His thighs are shaking against my shoulders. I can feel how close he is.
I pull off with a wet pop, and he whimpers at the loss.
"Not yet," I murmur against his hip. "I'm not done with you."
"You're gonna kill me," Sam pants, staring down at me with wild eyes. "Death by blowjob. They'll put it on my tombstone. 'Here lies Sam Sharma, murdered by his mate's mouth.'"
"There are worse ways to go," I say, and take him back in.
When I slip a finger between his legs, touching his hole, he nearly comes off the bed.
"There," he gasps. "Right there, please, don't stop—"
I don't. I ease one finger inside, then two, curling them. He bucks, eyes going wide. All the while, my mouth is on him, bringing him to the edge again and again.
"Devan," he finally sobs, hands fisting in my hair. "Please. I need you inside me. Now."
I pull back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. He's spread out on my navy sheets, flushed and desperate.
"Are you sure?" I ask, even as I'm scrambling out of my own clothes. "We don't have to—"
"If you don't fuck me right now," Sam growls, "I will murder you. And I will get away with it because no jury would convict me."
A laugh bubbles up, surprising both of us. I can't remember the last time I laughed. But Sam does that to me.
Naked, I crawl back over him, settling between his thighs. The first brush of skin on skin sends a jolt through me. He's so hot, so wet, so ready.
"Tell me if it's too much," I whisper, lining myself up.
I push in slowly, watching his face. But there's only wonder and need and a fierce heat.
When I'm fully inside, I have to stop. Close my eyes. Breathe. The tight heat of him. The scent of us together.
"You okay?" Sam asks. "You look like you're doing calculus in your head."
"I'm trying not to come in thirty seconds," I admit.
Sam grins. "That bad?"
"That good. You feel—" I can't find the words. "There's no data for this."
"Fuck the data," Sam says, rolling his hips. We both groan. "Just feel it."
I move. Slow at first, then faster as he urges me on with his hands, his voice, the roll of his hips. The room fills with the sound of skin.
"Mine," I growl against his neck, where my mark is dark against his skin. "You're mine."
"Yours," Sam gasps, nails digging into my back. "Only yours."
I feel it building, the pressure at the base of my cock, my knot. My body knows what to do.
"Sam," I warn, my voice breaking. "My knot—"
"Yes," he gasps, wrapping his legs around my waist, pulling me deeper. "Give it to me. All of it."
The first swell catches. I push in deeper, easing it inside him even as my instincts scream to thrust, to claim, to own.
"You're taking me so well," I murmur, kissing his temple, his cheeks, his lips. "So perfect. Made for me."
With one final push, my knot slips inside, locking us together. Tight and hot and perfect. I grind against him, unable to thrust anymore. Sam cries out, his body clenching around me as he comes between us, spilling over his stomach.
I come, emptying myself inside him.
When it fades, I collapse on him, careful not to crush him with my weight. We're both panting, stunned.
"Fuck," Sam breathes, his hands still moving over my back. "That was..."
"Yeah," I agree.
I shift us onto our sides, knot still locked inside him. I pull the blanket over us, trapping the warmth.
Sam's eyes are heavy, satisfaction making him limp in my arms. I brush a strand of hair from his forehead. He nuzzles closer, his breath warm against my neck.
"I was always yours," he murmurs, already half-asleep. "I just didn't know it yet."
As he drifts off, I hold him close, breathing in us. For the first time in two years, the restless, hungry thing inside my chest is quiet. Complete.
Sam is mine. I am never letting him go.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Then again. And again.
I ignore it.
It buzzes a fourth time.
"That's aggressive," Sam mumbles into my chest.
"Probably spam."
"At midnight?"
I sigh, reaching over. The screen lights up.
Four messages from the Philosophy department group chat:
Unknown: did anyone else hear screaming from Morrison Hall
Unknown: sounded like someone was being murdered
Unknown: or having REALLY good sex lmao
Unknown: probably Morse finally snapping and killing someone tbh
I lock my phone and set it face down.
"Spam?" Sam asks, a smile in his voice.
"Spam."
He laughs, soft and sleepy, and burrows closer. His breathing evens out within minutes.
I lie awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, my hand tracing slow circles on his back.
Sam shifts in his sleep, mumbling something that sounds like "flashcards," and I press a kiss to the top of his head.