The Fake Mate(11)

This is Noah Taylor, after all.

I know what scenting is, because I’m almost thirty and have had relationships that lasted more than a few months at a time, but it’s usually something I’ve experienced by accident during sex. Definitely not something I’ve purposely done in the bushes outside of my workplace. Besides the fact that we can literally turn into wolves outside of city limits (they passed that law in 1987 after some guy barreled through a storefront after getting too drunk), being a shifter means that our bodies work a little differently than your average human. Scents affect us, mark us, even drive us sometimes—and therefore they inadvertently take up a big role in our lives. Especially since a shifter has three times as many scent glands as a normal human, each one sensitive to the touch and the largest being right at the base of the throat, just waiting for some shifter partner to come along and meld his open scent with it. It’s practically like making out until you’re dizzy, and you smell like your boyfriend’s cologne, except the cologne doesn’t wash off for days at a time, depending on the potency.

“Noah,” I mumble into his clothes. “This isn’t—”

“Oh. Right. This won’t last long. Let me—”

I actually squeak when he curls his body against me so that he can press his neck to mine, feeling the chill of his bare skin as he nuzzles there gently, the prickle of his five-o’clock shadow, sharp and tingling on my skin as my body tenses in response. My lips part as my breath catches, my knees suddenly taking on the physical property of off-brand Jell-O as Noah stiffens. The gland at my neck feels warm when he touches me, a prickling heat there that creeps deeper inside until it spreads through my limbs. He makes some sound in his throat as if he’s trying to clear it but fails, his breath warm against my neck for one brief moment before he pulls away.

He looks confused, less awkward than before but no less out of sorts, frowning at me with his lips pressed together tightly. I watch his eyes dip from my face to my throat before finally capturing mine, his lips parting only to close as he finally remembers himself.

“That should . . .” He blinks, eyes dipping to my throat again. “That should do it.”

My voice is strangely quiet, but I still manage, “Ten-mile radius, right?”

“Give or take,” he assures me, looking serious.

We’re going to have to work on recognizing a joke at that . . . lunch date. First thing. For sure. After this. Why does he look a fraction more good-looking than he did a minute ago?

“I’ll uh, hold you to that,” I say, feeling awkward myself now when I realize that Noah is still firmly gripping me by the arms. “We should, um, move away from the bushes.”

Noah releases me immediately, and the look on his face tells me he hadn’t realized he was still touching me either, finally managing to actually clear his throat as he steps away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr. Car—I mean, Mackenzie.”

“Sure.” I cross my arms across my chest even if only to steady myself. My damn knees are actually weak. What the hell is up with that? Is it an alpha thing? “See you tomorrow, Noah.”

His gaze lingers for a moment before he shakes his head as if clearing a thought and nods curtly to give me his back. A back that makes it hard not to notice how broad it is. And that’s not something I usually notice. I don’t care how broad a guy is. So why is my subconscious doing a creepy mental eyebrow waggle at Noah’s width?

I keep close to the bushes as I watch him retreat to his shiny black Mercedes in the nearby lot, letting him put ample distance between us before I finally allow myself to take an actual breath. The cold air in my lungs on the inhale clears my head, but it doesn’t clear away Noah’s scent that’s still clinging to me. Even with the medicinal quality of his suppressants, it feels strong now that I’ve experienced it up close, and I don’t even pretend to resist the urge to press my nose to my shoulder to breathe in more of it. Something about it makes my skin feel tight, like it’s too small to hold me—that same sensation of running through the snow on all fours pulsing inside for the briefest of moments. It’s pleasant in a way like it was patented and made solely for my benefit—and just thinking this makes me cringe.

Knock it off, Mackenzie. We don’t believe in that uber-compatibility nonsense.

Still, I press my nose to my shoulder for a deeper draw of Noah’s lingering scent.

Yeah, I think. If I were a male I wouldn’t want to be within ten miles of that either.

I blow out a breath, tapping one foot on the ground and then the other to remind my damn knees who’s boss before I head toward my car.





4





Noah





As tired as I was when I left work this morning—I don’t sleep very well. I constantly toss and turn throughout the day, my blackout curtains doing nothing for my restlessness. It’s . . . strange, what touching Mackenzie elicited in me, a reaction unlike anything I can remember experiencing before. But then again, I have spent a good part of my adult life avoiding people to the best of my ability to circumvent situations like the one I’ve found myself in.

I rationalize that it’s because it’s been years since I’ve touched someone so familiarly; that’s why my body had reacted the way it had when I embraced her. That’s all. I can’t pretend that it hasn’t been . . . a long while now since I’ve been intimate with anyone, and even when I had been I have always been careful to avoid scenting them. I know what the potency of my scent might do to someone, and I have done my best to avoid the possibility of a partner beginning to cling to me after experiencing it. Which is probably why it’s been so long since I’ve touched anyone like I touched Mackenzie. It’s just not worth the trouble, given how hard I’ve worked at keeping my status private.