“Mackenzie, I don’t think—”
I’m already scoping the area for a place we can talk since, unfortunately, I am not yet high enough on the ladder to have my own office. “Let me just—” I spot a utility closet down the hall, grabbing his arm a little tighter and dragging him with me. “Come here.”
He’s still half protesting as I pull him the extra ten feet and shove him inside the cramped space, reaching to flick on the light and peeking back down the hall to make sure no one noticed us before I shut the door.
“Okay,” I say, turning to regard him. “My bad. You probably didn’t want to be overheard.”
“No . . . There’s nothing really to—Shit.” He blows out a breath, looking more stressed than he did even a minute ago. “I really should have texted you.”
“What’s wrong? Just tell me.”
“Nothing’s . . . wrong,” he manages, not really looking at me now. “I just . . .” He sighs, seeming almost embarrassed. “I just haven’t seen you in a few days.”
I tilt my head, not quite understanding. “Okay?”
“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.