Page 28 of Betrayed Pregnant Mate

Being in his place, in that memory, I realize that any other shifter would have been killing humans, shifters, doing anything to get away from that feeling. Percy had tried to explain what it felt like, but nothing could explain it like feeling it for myself.

“I forgive you,” I whisper, between kisses that are like petals, whispers, the phantom of a real kiss. “Percy,” I say, and his name comes out cracked, broken, halfway to a sob. “I forgive you.”

One of his hands comes to my hip, pulling me closer, and I sway but stay back, just outside of his room. For some reason, I feel that as long as I stay on this side of his door, this will all be okay.

At my words, it’s like something in his body takes over, and his touch on my chin becomes tighter, tipping my head back, slipping his tongue into my mouth, the sweet friction of it enough to send a straight shot of heat between my legs.

I want him.

Of course, I already knew that. You don’t fantasize about having sex with someone, those memories playing through your head again and again, when you don’t want them like that. But this is the first time that I’ve allowed myself to think it.

Maybe while I’m here, before I leave, we could just give in to this thing between us, get it out of our systems. We’ll be here in this apartment together, where nobody can hear us. The thought makes my heart flutter, and I push as close to him as I can get without crossing the threshold to his room.

Our teeth knock together clumsily, and we laugh, two quick exhales before he grabs me again and deepens the kiss.

My goofball, always laughing, always smiling—I think and think and think the word but keep it bottled up, pushing it away every time it comes back, like a beach ball on the waves, constantly rolling back toward me, buoyant and persistent.

I love him. I’m in love with him. As many times as I moved and as many times as I told myself it wasn’t true, it is. I didn’t stop loving him the day he left me, which was the worst part. It’s what made me hate him.

Touching him feels like dipping my toes into lava. My skin is hot, feverish from his attention. Sure, I’d loved him before, but it had never felt like this. It must be from the “blood-bond,” and I can’t even say I’m mad at it anymore.

The tempo picks up. His hands skate up my thighs and hips, dragging up the hem of my nightgown. He balls it in his fist, and I hitch my leg up onto his hip, pressing us together and making him groan loudly.

“Veronica,” he rasps, then as though he’s just now realizing what we were doing, he steps back suddenly. My nightgown falls back into place. I stand there, on the precipice, staring at him, wanting him but unable to take a step forward to meet him there. He might need his space. He’s the one who pulled away.

My rational brain is there in a second, saying what are you doing?

“Veronica,” he says, shaking his head. “We can’t.”

“Why not?” I say, feeling like a kid who didn’t get their way. I want to stamp my foot, want him to take me in his arms again. It would be so easy for us to fall together. I know what he likes—how he likes my nails down his back and my tongue on his dick. I could remind him of that, I think, desperation filling my brain. I could drop my nightgown to the floor and show him everything he’s missing.

“Fuck,” he whispers, shaking his head again, bringing both his hands to his head, scrubbing them through his hair like he always used to do when he was thinking something through. He pauses for a moment, then, as though he’s come to a final conclusion, he says, “Veronica, it could seriously hurt you.”

The idea of it he’s talking about sends another wave of arousal through my body, and I genuinely feel insane. I feel like I’ve gone without a need, like I’m dying of thirst. My body shakes, and for a moment, I think I might actually be pathetic enough to drop to my knees, beg him for it.

Yeah, well, I think about saying, this is killing me anyway.

I’ve never felt this aroused in my life. I want to pace in circles around him, and find where to pounce. I palm my forehead—what the hell is wrong with me?

“We can’t do this,” Percy says, still panting a little when he steps forward. Just before he closes the door, he says, his voice strained. “Lock the door.”

It’s painful, but I do.

***

I sleep fitfully, tossing and turning on the air mattress, my arms constantly reaching out for something that’s not there as much as I dream it.

When I wake up, I’m soaked from my dreams, and I groan against the pillow, wondering if anyone has ever felt like this before. They say men are constantly horny, and I wonder, as I roll off of the air mattress, if this is how they feel, continually pushing away sexy images.

I step into the shower, deciding I won’t touch myself to the thought of him, but less than a minute later, I give that up, muffling my cries into the crook of my elbow. But right after I’m done, the feelings come flooding back. It’s like chewing gum when you’re hungry.

After toweling off, I realize there’s only one thing that has the potential to take my mind off of Percy and potentially calm my raging hormones.

I grab a few tote bags from the cabinet and head outside, planning to head to the corner grocery store, until I remember that the Rosecreek farmers market happens every Saturday, and Percy is located conveniently close to the town square. I take my time wandering through the stalls. The fresh air, variety of products, and space away from Percy and the apartment manage to soothe my aching to a dull thrum in the back of my mind.

Everything at the market is seasonal, and it reminds me of when I made those strawberry shortcake pancakes for Percy all those years ago.

I grab some pie pumpkins and spices from various booths. Slowly, my tote bag fills, eventually becoming heavy enough that I’m forced to head back to the apartment. When I step inside and start to tie my hair up, I hear Percy say, muffled from his room, “Veronica?”

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