Page 21 of Knot Your Sugar

He understands immediately, his hands gripping my hips to guide our movements, creating a rhythm that has us both gasping. We remain fully clothed, but the friction is exquisite.

"You're incredible," he murmurs against my ear, his voice strained with restraint. "The way you move, your—"

I silence him with another kiss, not risking to hear anything about my scent. This is already messy enough without reminders of why it might be happening.

His hands slip beneath my jacket, staying outside my shirt as he cups my breasts. Our bodies move together with increasing urgency, the pressure building until I'm clinging to him, my face buried against his neck to muffle the sounds I can't help making.

When release finally comes, it crashes over me in waves, leaving me trembling and gasping against him. He follows moments later, his body tensing as he buries his face in my hair, his groan vibrating through me.

For several heartbeats, we remain wrapped together, catching our breath, neither of us wanting to break the moment. The night air cools my heated skin, reality slowly filtering back in. The distant sounds of the festival. The sweet scent of the wild roses. The uncomfortable dampness clinging to my panties.

Oh, god. What have I done?

Dorian lifts his head, his eyes finding mine in the soft moonlight. There’s a tenderness there, a raw vulnerability that I wasn’t expecting, and it makes my chest ache with a strange mix of emotions.

"Elena," he starts, his voice husky.

But I press my fingers lightly to his lips. "Don't," I whisper, the word barely audible. "Please. Don't say anything."

Something flickers across his face – hurt? confusion? – but he nods, stepping back to give me some much-needed space. I immediately miss the solid warmth of his body, but I force myself to turn away, to straighten my clothes, to try and rebuild the shattered walls of my composure.

"This was..." I start, then falter, struggling to find the right words.

"A mistake?" he offers.

"No," I admit, surprising myself with how right it feels. "But it can't happen again. I have too much riding on this competition."

He studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "I understand."

I doubt he does, but I appreciate the space he's giving me. I check my reflection in my phone camera, wincing at my flushed cheeks and disheveled hair. I look as thoroughly undone as I feel.

"You should go first," I say, my voice firmer now. "I'll wait a few minutes. We can’t be seen leaving the woods together."

He hesitates, then reaches out, his fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. The touch is so light, so unexpectedly tender, it nearly breaks my heart. "You were magnificent today, Elena," he says softly. "Not just… now. In the competition. Your talent is undeniable. It speaks for itself."

The unexpected compliment catches me off guard. Before I can respond, he's gone, melting back into the trees and leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.

I lean back against the rough bark of the oak tree, trying to force my breathing to return to normal. What in the seven hells was I thinking? Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve sacrificed, all risked in a moment of weakness.

If it wasn’t settled before, it is now: I am absolutely, unequivocally doubling my dose of DuoBlocks tomorrow. Whatever is happening with my body, whatever strange, irresistible pull these alphas are exerting on me, I need to shut it down. Hard.

As I walk back toward the festival, smoothing my hair and adjusting my clothes, I don't notice the figure behind a distant tree, phone raised, recording me.

Chapter eleven

James

The grainy video loops on my phone screen: Exhibit A, Elena Avery, looking delightfully disheveled, walking through the moonlit woods like a startled forest nymph. Exhibit B, captured mere minutes prior, one Dorian Beaumont, billionaire festival judge, walking the exact same path, attempting (and failing) to look nonchalant while straightening his expensive shirt. Oh, this is good. This iscinema.

I tuck my phone under the pillow and lean back on my hotel bed, a slow grin spreading across my face. Well, well, well. Little Miss Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt Elena has a few secrets tucked away with her piping bags, doesn't she?

When I’d impulsively decided to see where she was scurrying off to after closing her booth, purely out of idle curiosity, of course, I certainly wasn’t expecting to stumble upon aclandestine rendezvous with the festival’s head honcho. It’s almost too cliché. Almost.

Even this confusing, dark maze couldn’t rob me of the moment. Sure, I got lost for a bit. But my flair for drama led me right to the perfect vantage point, just in time to witness and record their perfectly timed, soap-worthy exits.

Is this footage proof of a disqualifiable offense? Probably. Does it raise reasonable suspicion? Without a doubt. Is it juicy? Absolutely.

I tap a thoughtful finger against my lips. My first, admittedly cynical, thought was the obvious one: she's angling for an advantage. Sleeping with a judge? Classic move. I’ve seen it play out at other competitions. It's tacky, but depressingly effective.

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