Page 4 of My Freshman Mate
Papers fly everywhere. He stumbles back, stammering an apology, but the words are sounds. I'm not listening. I'm watching the way his pulse jumps in the delicate skin of histhroat, a frantic little bird beating against a cage. I'm watching the perfect bow of his lips as they form words I can't hear over the thunder in my own blood.
"I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I—"
His voice finally registers, a soft, nervous melody that makes my skin prickle with heat. He's looking up at me—way up—and I watch the exact moment recognition dawns in those deep, mahogany-brown eyes. His pupils blow wide. His breath catches in his chest. He knows. He fucking knows.
My alpha, the part of me that's been sleeping my whole life, rears up with a single, deafening snarl that echoes in my soul.
Mine.
The word isn't a thought; it's a physical command. An ache starts low in my gut and spreads, tightening my balls, making my teeth ache with the overwhelming urge to bite down on the soft skin of his neck and leave a mark that will never fade.
My teammates are yelling something from across the quad. Someone's calling my name. It's all a million miles away. Meaningless. The only thing that matters is the omega right in front of me, staring up with those deer-in-headlights eyes, his scent wrapping around me, sinking into me, claiming me as much as I'm about to claim him.
"I—I'm late for my advising session," he whispers, his voice trembling. "I have to go."
A growl rumbles in my chest, low and dangerous.No.The thought is absolute. He's not going anywhere. Ever.
I don't move. I can't. Moving would mean letting him out of my sight, and the thought is more terrifying than anything I've ever known. I stare, drinking him in. He's slender but not fragile, with a wiry strength under his rumpled button-down that I can already imagine straining under my hands. His black hair falls across his forehead, a silky mess that makes my fingersitch to fist in it. There's intelligence in those eyes. A fierce determination, even though he's scared shitless.
Perfect. He's so fucking perfect it hurts.
"I really need to—"
I close the distance between us in one silent step. He flinches, a tiny, aborted movement that sends a wave of possessive heat crashing through me. His scent spikes—books and sharp anxiety and something sweet underneath that is purely him, a scent made for me. I tower over him, and a deep, primal satisfaction hums in my blood at the size difference. My body could shield his entirely. Hide him from the world. Keep him safe from everyone but me.
"You smell like mine," I growl, the words ripped from somewhere deep and instinctual, a place that doesn't use manners.
His eyes widen. His breath quickens, and I can hear the frantic, uneven beat of his heart. I want to press my palm flat against his chest to feel it.
My voice drops to a low command that leaves no room for argument. "Forget the tour. You're with me now."
I reach out, my hand closing around his slender wrist. His skin is soft, warm, electric. His pulse hammers against my thumb, a wild, frantic rhythm that matches my own. He doesn't pull away. He can't. We both know it. A dark, ugly part of me wants him to try, just so I can show him how pointless it is.
"But my advising session—" he tries again, his voice weaker this time, already laced with surrender.
"Later."
I bend down, my eyes never leaving his, and gather the scattered papers with my free hand. I never let go of his wrist. I stuff them into his leather satchel and sling it over my own shoulder. It feels right. Mine to carry. Mine to protect.
"What's your name?" I ask, though it doesn't really matter. He could be called anything. He's still mine.
"Braiden," his voice is small but steady. "Braiden Kelly."
Braiden. It rolls around in my head, tasting right. Smart-sounding. Precise. My Braiden.
"Wes Chambers," I say, though I'm sure he already knows. Everyone on campus knows who I am. The star quarterback. The campus king. It's always felt hollow before, a title for a game I didn't care about. Now, for the first time, I want him to know exactly who's claiming him. I want my name branded on his tongue.
"I know who you are," he confirms, a slight tremble in his voice.
Good.
I slide my hand from his wrist to his lower back, my fingers splaying possessively over the curve of his hip. I guide him firmly against my side, tucking him into my body. The contact sends a jolt of pure lightning up my arm. He fits perfectly against me, like a piece of myself I didn't even know was missing slotting into place.
"Where are we going?" His feet stumble a little to keep up with my longer strides.
"My place."
He makes a small, choked sound, a little gasp of air that makes my dick stir. "Your—I can't just—we just met!"
