Page 44 of Pack Frenzy
His gaze drags up to mine, slow as honey, dark as smoke. The space between us folds in on itself until there’s nothing but sandalwood and skin and the electric taste of ozone in the air.
“You’re looking for trouble,” he says quietly. “And if you don’t leave now, I can’t promise that you’ll be able to.”
I should step back. Put distance between us. But my body won’t cooperate. “Maybe trouble’s looking for me too.”
His jaw tightens. “Jess?—”
“Don’t.” My pulse hammers in my throat, my wrists, low in my belly. “Don’t tell me this is a bad idea. I already know. Yellow.” The word slips out—barely breath, barely thought—a tremor of want tangled with fear. Not no. Not yes. Just slow.
His hands flex at his sides like he’s catching himself on an invisible edge, every muscle tightening as he reins himself in. He doesn’t step back, doesn’t crowd forward, just… recalibrates. Reading me. Matching me.
“Then why are you still standing here?”
“I don’t know.” The honesty scrapes out of me. “Why are you?”
That earns a sound from him—half laugh, half exhale, rough enough to scrape. Something almost pained crosses his face. “Because I’m trying to figure out if I’m protecting you or punishing myself.”
“Rowan—”
“We shouldn’t.” But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t break eye contact. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from reaching for me.
“I know.” Except everything in me doesn’t want another second to go by without his hands on me, his mouth on me.
“You need time.”
“I do.” My voice comes out breathless. “I’m not—this isn’t?—”
“Then we stop.” He says it like a command, but his gaze drops to my mouth and stays there. “Right now. Before this becomes something we can’t take back.”
“Right.” I should move. Should walk away. My feet stay planted. “Stopping. Good idea.”
The air between us crackles, charged and waiting. His control is fracturing. I see it in the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing has gone shallow.
“Shit, Jess. You need to leave. Now.”
“You could make me.” And I can’t believe I just said that, but now that the words are out, I don’t want to take them back.
His eyes flash dark. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll stop being the responsible one.” His voice drops to something dangerous. “And we’ll both regret it tomorrow.”
That should scare me. Instead, the vanilla and jasmine in my scent blooms, and I know he can smell it. Know he can read exactly what his words do to me.
His nostrils flare. “Fuck.”
The distance disappears.
His mouth finds mine, and my knees threaten to give. My hands flatten on the top of the desk for balance, but I’m already leaning into him, already tilting toward the gravity well he creates, already drowning in the way he tastes like everything I shouldn’t want and everything I can’t stop craving.
His hand slides to the small of my back, fingers splaying wide, and he pulls me flush against him. The solid heat of his body makes something in me go liquid and desperate.
The kiss deepens. His other hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about this moment.
Everything narrows to the scent of him, the scrape of his jaw against my skin, the way he tastes—coffee and something darker, something that makes me want more.
When his tongue grazes mine, the sound I make is small and raw and entirely involuntary. He swallows it like a secret worth keeping.
