Page 70 of The Rejected Omega

And that's all.

He's shirtless. I’ve seen him shirtless before, of course. At pool parties or swim practice, or when we went skinny dipping in the lake. Back when we were aware enough of each other’s bodies for it to be titillating, but too young for it to turn into anything illicit. This was different.

He’s ripped. Absolutely shredded.

My jaw hangs open. “Holy. Nope. You need to put that weapon of a torso away.” My skin goes hot just thinking about sharing the bed with him.

He looks almost sheepish.

“My alpha's been displeased since I moved. Working out is one of the only ways to quiet him.”

Of course. His alpha probably sensed something was amiss. Did part of him recognize me as his mate? Without the clarity of the claiming ceremony, it was hard to imagine, but mating dynamics were as much magic as science.

Connor pulls the covers back. "I sleep hot. You’re lucky I’m wearing pants."

The sink of the mattress as he climbs into the bed beside me feels like an opening salvo. The beginning of the end.

Every hair on my body stands on end. I feel alive in a way I haven’t in a long time.

There’s no way I can fall asleep like this. My body's exhausted, but my mind is racing. I’m in mymate’sbed.

I can sense every inch of his skin beneath the sheet beside me. I could reach out and touch him, taste him. Dust my fingers over his abs and trace the v-lines in his abdomen down the trail of hair leading beneath his waistband.

We lie there like awkward corpses, elbows splayed and bodies still. I’m wide-a-fucking-wake.

Connor leans over to his nightstand, pulls an e-reader out of the drawer, and slips on a pair of glasses.

It’s so fucking domestic that it’s heartbreaking.

“Holy shit. Connor Masters uses reading glasses.”

He glances at me over the rims. He looks like one of those unreasonably hot glasses models who don’t obey the laws of the universe, because glasses only amplify their hotness.

He shrugs. “I’m getting old.”

“Not getting any wiser, though.”

I roll over and crane my neck to see his screen. My leg brushes against his.

“What are you reading?”

“You used to hate being asked that question.”

“Because it was always some jerk whose only talking points were how quiet I was and that I should smile more doing the asking. As if reading equated loneliness.” Sometimes I didn’t even respond, just lifted the cover to show them.

I hadn’t begun to know the meaning of loneliness, back then.

“And you were usually reading smut.”

I snort. “Undoubtedly. You were the only one who knew what to do.”

When we started sitting together on the bus, he’d pull out his own tattered paperback and read next to me, rather than ask what I was reading. The conversation would then come naturally, instead of feeling like an imposition or interruption.

“Because I understood what it was like to be on your side of the question. And I knew I’d have better luck earning your smiles than asking for them.”

He makes my heart hurt when he talks like this. He always knows the right thing to say. I need to change the subject.

“So, what are you reading?” I waggle my eyebrows.

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