* * *
?He’s still acting like he might bolt at any second. Like he’s arguing with himself in his head about all the reasons why he shouldn’t be here. He’s sitting stiffly on my couch like one of those bronzed park bench statues—frowning at my carpet in a way that lets me know he is completely in his own head right now.
I study him from the kitchen counter as I pour him a glass of wine, letting myself drink him in. He really is . . . something. Now that I’m actually assessing. I’m honestly not sure how I haven’t given him proper notice before all this, regardless of his formerly sour attitude. Which, I really have begun to realize, is just a weird part of his charm. His dark hair has started to curl at his temples, a product of his fingers running through it nervously one too many times, and his full mouth is pressed almost into a pout-like shape with how hard he’s thinking. When I gather up our glasses to join him on the couch, I take note of the width of his forearms, completely visible with the rolled-up sleeves of his button-down. Just looking at them sparks memories of being wrapped up in them only a few hours ago, which has me pressing my thighs together.
Take the bull by the horns, Mack.
I hand him a glass, and he looks almost surprised to see it, then he notices me settling on the other side of the couch. “So, you really meant a drink?”
“It feels like you could use it. You look like you’re about to jump out of my window.” I chuckle as I take a sip from my glass. “If I didn’t know nerves were to blame, I might be offended.”
He looks confused, his hand stilling just before his glass touches his lips. “Offended?”
“Well . . .” I swirl the dark red liquid of the rioja as I avert my eyes, peering into my wineglass. “I’ve never had to talk someone into sleeping with me before. Not exactly great for my ego.”
“It’s not—” He makes a disgruntled sound, taking a sudden swig from his glass and swallowing it forcefully before shaking his head. “It’s not because I don’t want to.”
I turn more to my side to face him, leaning on my elbow as I let it rest against the back of the couch. “Could have fooled me.”
“I think we both know by the state you left me in on that deck that I very much want to,” he says more quietly. He takes another swig, for courage, maybe. “I worry.”
I frown. “Worry?”
“I know you’re a grown woman, I know that, but . . . neither of us fully understands the implications of what we’re doing here. We haven’t ever experienced . . . something like this.”
My mouth makes an O shape. “So, you’ve never . . . ?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
I let that knowledge settle, considering all the things that come with it as I take a larger sip from my glass this time. Everything he’s saying makes sense, and there is a part of me that wonders if I am being reckless. No one’s ever accused me of being overly careful in my life, that’s for sure, but still . . . I can’t bring myself to change my mind. Not after the all-over pleasure I’d felt just from kissing him. A girl can only withstand so much, really.
“Your apartment is nice,” Noah says in what I suspect is an attempt to break the silence. “Cozy.”
“You mean it’s small,” I laugh.
He glances around my studio, his eyes moving from the kitchen behind the couch to the bed that sits on a platform to our left. “No, no, I just meant . . .”
“It’s fine,” I assure him. “I’ve never liked big houses.” I frown into my glass then. “Too much space.”
“What’s wrong with space?”
A familiar melancholy settles in the back of my mind, a brief glimpse of my dad’s face leaving our house for the last time flashing through my thoughts. I quickly shake it away as I take another swallow of wine. “Just feels lonely, I guess.”
“Oh.”
More silence. Noah isn’t looking at me, eyes transfixed on my carpet again as he holds his glass against his chest like some sort of tiny security blanket. My glass is nearly empty now, I realize, and the warmth the wine leaves in my belly is giving me that same courage Noah might have been chasing.
“So, if you’ve never been with an omega,” I try carefully, watching his jaw tense, “does that mean you’ve never knotted anyone?”
His knuckles go white against the wineglass in his hand, and for a moment I think he could almost break it in his grip. It’s subtle, the change in him, but with that one word I can sense the slight increase of his breathing, the ragged quality of it. It makes my heart pound a little faster, sets off a tingling between my legs.