Page 54 of The Knotheads Next Door
Her scent. God, her scent. It hits me full force now, stronger and sweeter than it's ever been. Pure omega, calling to something primal and possessive deep in my core.
Before I can stop myself, I grab her wrist, feeling her pulse race beneath my fingers. I search her face, looking for... what? Fear? Disgust? Anything that would give me a reason to step away, to maintain the careful distance I've insisted on since she arrived.
But all I see is the same confusion and the same desire that's tearing me apart.
"What are you doing to me?" I ask, echoing my words from earlier, but this time there's no anger in them. Just genuine bewilderment at how thoroughly she's dismantled my defenses.
"I don't know," she answers honestly, her voice small. "I don't understand any of this."
"Me neither," I admit. And it's true. I don't understand why her scent affects me so strongly, why the thought of her leaving in two weeks makes my chest ache, why I can't seem to keep my walls up around her no matter how hard I try.
All I know is that I'm tired of fighting it.
I slam my lips against hers.
I’m not gentle. I'm not careful. I’m rough and desperate and hungry, all the frustration and desire I've been tamping down for weeks pouring into the press of my lips against hers. I expect her to push me away, to come to her senses and realize what a mistake this is.
Instead, she makes a small, needy sound against my mouth and kisses me back with equal fervor, her hands fisting in my shirt to pull me closer.
I back her against the counter, lifting her easily to sit on the edge, stepping between her thighs. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me in, and I groan at the contact. My hands slide under her shirt, finding warm, soft brown skin that feels like heaven beneath my callused palms.
She gasps when I trail kisses down her neck, nipping gently at the sensitive spot just below her ear. Her scent spikes sharply, filling the kitchen with sweetness so intense it makes my head spin. My alpha instincts roar to life—claim, mark, mine—but I force them down, clinging to the last shreds of my self-control.
"Jasper," she breathes, and the sound of my name on her lips nearly undoes me.
I capture her mouth again, one hand tangling in her hair while the other slides down her side, her hip, the bare skin of her thigh. She arches against me, her body seeking more contact, more friction. I slip my hand beneath the waistband of her shorts, and she whimpers, a sound so needy and desperate it makes my blood burn.
The loud crash of breaking glass shatters the moment.
We jerk apart, breathing hard, to find Gerald sitting innocently on the counter beside an overturned bottle of olive oil—now shattered on the floor, the oil slowly spreading across the tile.
Reality comes crashing back with brutal force. What the hell am I doing? This is exactly the kind of complication I've been trying so hard to avoid. The exact reason we established boundaries in the first place.
I step back, running a shaking hand through my hair. "Shit. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—that was—"
I can't even form a coherent sentence, my mind still clouded with her scent, my body still humming with want.
Rowan slides off the counter, her eyes wide, her lips swollen from my kisses. She looks dazed, confused, and so beautiful it physically hurts to look at her.
"Jasper," she starts, reaching for me.
I take another step back, needing distance, needing clarity. "I'm sorry," I repeat, the words inadequate but all I can offer. "That was a mistake. It can't happen again."
Hurt flashes across her face, quickly masked. "A mistake," she echoes, her voice flat.
"We have two weeks left," I remind her, remind myself. "Then you're gone. This—whatever this is—it just complicates things."
"Right," she says, wrapping her arms around herself. "Complications. I forgot that's all I am to you."
"That's not what I meant," I protest, but it's weak and we both know it.
She bends down to scoop up Gerald, who's looking far too pleased with himself for a cat who just destroyed a moment of insanity. "I should go to bed. Early shift tomorrow."
"Rowan—"
"It's fine," she cuts me off. "You're right. It was a mistake. Won't happen again."
She walks out without looking back, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the scent of olive oil and broken glass and her—still lingering in the air, on my skin, driving me slowly mad.
