The Fake Mate(31)

“I just . . .” I swear, if this weren’t Noah Taylor I was talking to, I might think he was blushing. “I haven’t scented you in three days.” He says the words very quietly, like it’s difficult. “I was starting to worry people might notice.”

“Oh.”

At first, there’s a tiny part of me that preens at this information. Some faraway omega hormone that does a little somersault as it parades through my bloodstream. Then I remember what we are, and I feel silly.

“That makes sense,” I say almost too quickly. “I’m sorry. It’s been so busy. I didn’t even think about people getting suspicious.”

“Suspicious,” he echoes woodenly, eyes fixed on my face now. “Right. Don’t apologize. It’s been busy upstairs too.”

“Still.” I shuffle my feet, feeling odd about the whole thing. Which doesn’t make any sense. Surely I can’t be disappointed that he only came to find me to do some maintenance work on our charade. That’s the whole reason we’re even talking right now, after all. “Wow,” I laugh. “Probably weird that I pulled you into the closet then.”

“It’s fine,” he assures me. “I suppose . . .” He looks around at the cluttered shelves on either side of us. “I suppose this is as good a place as any.”

My heart rate picks up a couple more beats. Have I started anticipating this? That’s normal, right? Given the situation?

Fucking hormones.

“I haven’t been in a closet with a guy since freshman year of undergrad,” I say with a nervous chuckle.

I notice a slight flare to Noah’s nostrils, a flash of hardness in his eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it comes. “I’ll be quick,” he tells me quietly.

“Okay,” I half whisper back.

I’ve begun to get used to this part, in the sense that I never really get used to it at all—holding my breath as Noah closes the distance between us until my back is pressed against the closet door. His hand comes to rest somewhere near my head, like he’s steadying himself, and then the other settles at my hip to do the same thing, I suppose. I’ve closed my eyes at this point, so I can’t be sure.

“You don’t smell like me at all,” he says with a quiet inhale, his tone almost annoyed.

Is he worrying about what people might say had he not come when he had?

“Sorry,” I breathe again.

I hear another deep inhale. “Don’t be.”

I tense with anticipation as I feel his skin slide against mine, that first press of his cheek somewhere under my jaw making me shiver. It’s hard to explain what it feels like when he does this—it’s like being touched everywhere at once, when his scent blends with mine. There’s definitely a reason you normally do this with someone you’re actually sleeping with.

My fingers reaching out to grip the lapel of his white coat is an instinct; I don’t even realize I’ve done it until the fabric is wadded in my fist. I even tilt my head to allow him better access, sighing quietly when his throat glides against mine. My toes curl in my shoes, and I idly think to myself that these little episodes seem to get more and more dizzying the longer we keep them up.

I’m hardly breathing when he starts to pull away. There is even that same small part of me that is silently protesting, wanting me to pull him closer—but it isn’t until he turns his head ever so slightly, his lips barely brushing a sensitive place on my neck in what I think is an accident, that my knees buckle a little.

Noah catches me, his arms beneath mine to hold me upright, and when his eyes meet mine—there’s a wildness to them that feels unlike him.

“I’m sorry,” he manages raggedly. “I didn’t mean—” He swallows, drawing my eyes to the motion of his throat. It seems a little difficult for him. “I—”

I’m not sure what he’s trying to say, and I’m honestly not even sure if he knows. His eyes have drifted down to my mouth, staring at my lips like they’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. I can’t really make sense of what I’m feeling at this moment; do I want Noah to kiss me, or is that, too, the result of some ridiculous hormone-driven causation?

To be fair, his mouth does look . . . incredibly soft right now.

I think I’m about to do something very stupid, and I am pretty damned certain that Noah is about to let me, given the way he’s started to lean in a little, and the entire room smells like him, and it’s hard to think, and I just—

We jolt apart when the door suddenly opens behind us, and I can’t imagine what sort of sight we must make to the elderly janitor who frequents the halls here. The bright light of the fluorescents floods the closet as the door opens all the way, and both Noah and I seem to be struggling to come up with a good reason as to why we are shut away in a utility closet that probably smells like we were sucking face in it—if not worse.

“Kevin,” I sputter, doing my best to straighten my body even though my knees are a little shaky still. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

Kevin’s wrinkled cheeks dimple further with his sly smile, raising his hands and looking away. “I didn’t see nothing.”

“No, wait,” I try again. “We’re not—”

Kevin closes the door to leave us where he found us, and I feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment like I’m some horny teenager who’s just been caught at school. I groan as I lean back against one of the shelves, throwing an arm over my face.