Page 7 of Knot Your Sugar

"Static electricity," she says quickly. "I should probably stop shuffling my wool socks around."

"Thank you," I say, my voice somehow an octave deeper than I intended. I clear my throat. "For the coffee. Not the static electricity."

We settle on her small couch, our knees touching as she props her feet up on a small footrest. I resist the urge to mirror her casual posture. These pants weren't designed for anything but sitting rigidly or standing.

"So," I begin.

"So," she echoes, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Your place is lovely," I say, mentally kicking myself for sounding like someone's elderly aunt making polite conversation.

"Thanks. The decorating theme is 'things I could afford', which is basically just stuff from local yard sales. Though I'm lucky my boss is also my landlord and rents this place to me for cheap."

I laugh, relaxing a little. "Well, I like it. I think it has character."

"Speaking of character, you're staying at The Grand, I'm guessing?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Only hotel in town with sheets above 400 thread count," she says with a grin. "Plus you have that 'I recently showered with fancy soaps' smell about you."

"Is that a good smell or a bad smell?" I ask, strangely concerned about her answer.

"Definitely good."

I hide my smile behind my coffee mug, a quiet satisfaction warming me from within as I take a slow sip.

Time melts away as we talk about simple things: the festival preparations she's observed around town, local restaurant recommendations. I find myself genuinely interested in her stories, especially when she describes the trip to Hawaii she dreams of taking with her mom someday.

"She's never seen the ocean," Elena says, her expression softening. "Can you imagine? She's spent her whole life making sure I had opportunities, and she's never even stepped foot in the ocean."

"You'll take her," I say with certainty. "I can tell you're someone who makes things happen."

She looks at me, curious. "You sound pretty confident for someone who just met me tonight."

"I'm a good judge of character."

"Which I'm sure totally helps you in whatever you do…" She pauses as she tilts her head with a charming gaze. "So what is it youactuallydo, Dorian?"

I take a strategic sip of coffee. "I’m in the food industry," I say, aiming for a tone that’s informative but not an invitation for a business seminar. "Mostly on the management and investment side of things." It’s the sanitized version, but this evening isn’t about resumes.

"Still playing the mystery card, huh?" she teases, and her smile does funny things to my internal rhythm. My pulse, usually steady as a metronome, seems to have picked up a new, slightly jazzier beat.

"I prefer to think of it as being… fully present," I counter, setting my mug on the rustic wooden table. "And right now, Elena, I’d much rather focus on you."

The air between us crackles, the playful banter fading into a more charged silence. She sets her mug down too, and I notice a slight tremor in her hand; a subtle sign of vulnerability that makes my protective instincts stir. I lean in, slowly, giving her every opportunity to retreat. She doesn’t. Her gaze flickers from my eyes to my lips and back again.

When our lips finally meet, the connection is far more potent than I anticipated. Her taste, a captivating blend of coffee roast and something intoxicatinglysweet, awakens a primal hunger Ihaven’t felt in years. I deepen the kiss, one hand gently cupping her cheek, the other finding its way to the small of her back, drawing her closer. She responds with an eagerness that sends a thrill through me, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me nearer still.

I pull back just enough to look at her. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright and sparkling.

"Elena," I murmur, her name a soft sound on my lips, not quite sure what I want to say, only that I wantherin every syllable.

Her answer is to kiss me again, deeper this time, and any lingering threads of rational thought begin to unravel. My alpha instincts, usually dormant around betas, roar to life with surprising force, a possessive urge to take her here and then. This is unexpected.

Her hands slide under my shirt, her cool fingers sending shivers down my spine. And just like that, any coherent thought has packed its bags and left.

We’re a tangle of limbs and shared breaths, clothes becoming inconvenient obstacles as we instinctively navigate from the couch toward her bedroom. She tugs my hand, her eyes dark with desire and a hint of dare, and I follow without hesitation, pausing only to press her against the hallway wall for another searing kiss that leaves us both gasping.

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