Chapter 2
Chapter two
Sharma
The latch clicks shut. Metal bites metal, final and sharp as a bankruptcy decree, and the sound reverberates in the room. Roan stands between me and the exit, shoulders blocking the fading light, jaw set with the determination of a man who has never been denied an acquisition he desired.
I last saw him five years ago. And my memory cheated me.
Conned me into believing he wasn't that gorgeous.
His lips are tulip perfect. His eyes match the blue-green waves outside my door.
And when did he get so big? My shoes are off and I barely come to his barrel chest. Even with the fading suppressant my body pitches toward him, every nerve ending voting to close the distance and stay there.
The smell of him—rum and fresh salty sea air—invades the bungalow immediately, crowding the humid space until my lungs work harder to draw oxygen.
The last of my dose pulses dimly through my bloodstream, a failing firewall against biological code I never consented to install.
My nostrils flare despite the lock I've placed on my expression.
I make myself look at the wall past his left shoulder.
It doesn't help. My peripheral vision is apparently also a traitor.
"Asshole? Are you going to punish us both for the rest of our lives because of something a dumb kid said?
" His voice drops, rough and low, scratching against my composure like sandpaper against raw wood.
He shifts his weight, and the linen of his pants pulls tight across the unmistakable ridge of his arousal, thick and demanding against the fabric.
"For God's sake, Sharma. I called you chubby.
If that's the crime, you've already executed the perfect revenge.
All I can think about is holding those curves.
My cock is hard as stone right now, aching for you. Raw need. Hungry for it."
My jaw tightens until the bone aches. Anger and arousal twist into each other, a tangled braid I refuse to acknowledge, and my jaw aches with the effort of keeping my face still. The heartbeat in my ears drums a warning rhythm.
"That crudeness proves you haven't matured a bit since you were sixteen." The words clip out, controlled and sharp. "You think this is about a nickname? About 'Chub Chub'?"
I step closer, near enough to catch the muscle twitch under his left eye.
Near enough to register his hands flattening at his sides, fingers spreading then closing with the deliberate restraint of a man accustomed to taking what he wants.
Near enough that his warmth reaches me before contact does, a full degree of heat radiating off his skin and landing against the front of my dress.
His stillness does more damage than shouting would—the pause before a predator springs.
"You made me feel lacking," I say. "I was six years old, Roan.
Six. And you were sixteen, grieving your mother, but you chose to grind your pain into me with that nickname.
'Chub Chub.' At the dinner table. In front of Viv and your brothers.
You taught me that my body was a joke, that my hunger—for food, for attention, for existence—was shameful.
I stopped eating when you were home. I stopped speaking.
You recalibrated me into something I might never have been, changing my world and my life with your cruelty.
You think those were trivial jokes? Well, I didn't laugh then and I'm not laughing now. "
His pupils dilate, black swallowing the hazel.
Breath changes—deeper, slower. The air conditioning unit clicks on overhead, a mechanical intrusion that does nothing to cool the temperature rising between us.
His throat works, the pulse there visibly accelerating, matching the traitorous rhythm tapping at the base of my throat.
His eyes drop to that pulse point. One beat.
Then back to mine. I almost raise my hand to cover my neck—stop myself before my arm lifts an inch.
"So I built walls," I continue, my voice dropping to match his register, each word a brick mortared into place.
"Stone and steel. A career. An identity.
Top of my class at Wharton. I built a consulting career from a laptop in a studio apartment.
I don't need your approval or respect. And you stand here, cock straining against your pants, speaking about my body like it's your right.
A right you claim with a declaration that isn't close to a genuine apology.
You expect me to surrender my autonomy because biology demands it?
I reject those terms. Rejected them a long time ago. "
My pulse hammers at my throat, and my hand twitches, wanting to hide the giveaway. I crush the impulse. Instead, my eyes lock on his, letting the silence stretch like a rubber band pulled to its tensile limit.
"Professional boundaries," I say, enunciating each syllable. "I'm meeting with you because we have to work together when we return."
His brows furrow. He either didn't get the memo or didn't bother to read it. "I'm your new consultant. We'll be working together on the South Asian marketing strategy."
"What? No one told me—wait, are you S. Kinsey?"
"Unbelievable," I say. "You didn't even know my real name?"
Roan matches my scowl. "Of course, I did. I just didn't put it together. You're just a baby. Viv just got her bachelor's degree this year and you—"
"—also graduated, same year. Different schools."
His eyes go to slits, the calculation in them sharpening into offense. "We don't hire untrained consultants for a job this important without a shit ton of experience. Did you—"
"— Viv helped me."
"Oh, Viv's been very helpful. She told me she gave you my brush."
"She did. She's a good friend and she's been a good sister to you."
"Did I say she wasn't? That was a little extreme, wouldn't you agree? And deliberately keeping my mate from me is not something a good sister would do."
"It is if she grew up hearing you say that you never wanted one."
"All of this is beside the point. You are my mate. There is no way we will be able to work together and what are you doing anyway exactly?"
"I was hired to help make sure that the marketing campaign for the Southeast Asia project is culturally appropriate and sensitive to the unique issues of that region."
"You are qualified for that?"
"I'm actually more than qualified. I'll be happy to send you a copy of my research and thesis project in this area. Which by the way included an extra year of study abroad for cultural immersion."
"How could you possibly have completed all of that by the age of twenty-two?"
"I finished high school in half the time usually required with an advanced dual enrollment placement, completed college at the same rate, and went straight to work on my master's. Everything done by twenty-three."
"If that's true, that would be a remarkable accomplishment."
"Why would I lie? And as I said I'll be happy to send you whatever verifications of my qualifications you need."
"I'll take your word for it. I'm not so insecure that I mind if my mate is a freaking genius."
Something in his expression shifts when he says it—not softening exactly, more like a door left open an inch. My chest does something involuntary and irritating in response. I redirect my attention to his collar.
"Good, I'm glad that's settled. Meanwhile, let's discuss logistics. We'll be in the same conference room, sometimes alone, reviewing your proposals."
"I don't think it's going to be that easy, not when you're my mate."
"I can separate the boardroom from the bedroom. I suggest you do the same, or you'll be looking for a new consultant, and the board will want to know why you chased off the best consultant available."
Every muscle in him locks. The stillness before action, the predatory pause just before the body commits. His brows lower, shadowing his eyes, breath held then released slow through his nose. He takes one step forward. Just one. The bungalow is not large. The distance between us drops by half.
"You believe," he says, each word measured and clipped, "that I can sit across from you for eight hours?
Side by side with my omega, your scent calling to me, slick and ready, your mind sharp and your body denied to me, and not drag you onto that conference table?
Not push your papers aside and take you until the only project you remember is how to take my cock?
Not knot you until you can't walk straight, not mark you as mine? "
My vision blurs at the edges, heat rising between my thighs, slick and tense.
My spine softens one vertebra at a time against every order I give it.
"We'll have to function as colleagues." My shoulders remain back, posture rigid despite the tremor building behind my knees.
My hands want to shake; I lock my fingers behind my back.
The impulse to touch him, to shove him away or pull him closer—to prove my control through physical contact—blazes through my fingertips. "You'll learn. Or you'll fail."
"Is it really that easy for you?"
"Yes."
The lie scratches my throat when I force it out. The suppressant is fading—the edge of my control thinning, becoming translucent, like code with a fatal error propagating through the system. Soon, the heat will crest, and biology will scream what my pride refuses to vocalize.