Page 59 of The Beta's Blind Date

“I heard him talking about you to some other males.”

“What did he say?”

“That females on Date-To-Mate are all desperate and that you were an easy lay. He told them all what your username is. That’s how I knew he was talking about you.”

“That asshole!” I jump up and stomp towards the door. “I’ll show him. Where is he?”

“Probably in our pack hospital or back at his pack’s hospital. I already pummeled him,” Reid says, grabbing my hand and pulling me back onto the couch, closer to him this time, although I doubt it’s intentional.

“You did?”

“Damn right I did. Pretty sure I broke his nose and knocked out a few of his teeth, too. No one can talk about my girl like that and get away with it.”

His thumb rubs my knuckles, and our thighs press together on the couch. I stare at him, unsure what to make of his statement, of his declaration of protectiveness. His thigh is warm against mine, the muscle strong. My hand in his is warm too, little goosebumps left behind as he continues to trail his thumb over my skin.

He’s right in the corner where the arm meets the back of the couch, leaning back, angled so I could straddle his lap if he pulled me into him or if I crawled on top of him like my body is begging me to. I already know how delicious he feels pressed against me. I wonder if it would feel better if he was naked instead? If all his hard-earned muscles were exposed for me to run my hands over and caress, to watch tighten and relax as we moved together and explored each other.

His tongue darts out and wets his lips, and everything in me—even my wolf—urges me to act on those thoughts, to climb him like I’ve been aching to. My heart yearns for those powerful arms to hold me close, to envelop me in their safe circle. I don’t need a man to protect me—I’m more than capable of doing that on my own—but I wouldn’t protest if he wanted to be that type of man for me.

The moment between us stretches, my hand in his and our thighs pressing together, his eyes boring into mine. I lick my lips too, and he blinks, broken out of our silent staring contest.

He drops my hand and leans forward, grabbing a plate and filling it with snacks. “What uh—” He clears his throat. “What all do you want to eat?”

“Everything,” I say, rubbing my hands on my legs, shaking off the remnants of my desire for him, erasing the memory of his touch so I’m not focused on it when I should be watching these warrior videos. “I’m not picky.” I look around the room again, avoiding his eyes. “Can I use this?” I ask, pointing at the black fleece blanket among the pillows.

“Of course. I brought it in here for you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’re always complaining about how cold it is,” he says, his lips twitching.

“Only when we’re outside.”

“She says as she wraps the blanket around her body like a burrito.” He laughs, peering at me over his shoulder.

I stick my tongue out at him but snuggle down into the warm, cozy blanket. Reid’s woodsy and cinnamony scent surrounds me like an extra layer of warmth, drawing my wolf forward, and I lift the edge of the fabric to my nose, breathing it in. “It smells like you.”

“That’s because it’s the blanket from my bed.”

“And how many other females have you let use this blanket?”

“None. I never brought females back to my apartment. I used guest rooms most of the time.”

My brow raises at him. Did he mean to use the past tense in those sentences? And does he realize he did?

He smiles at me, holding out the plate of snacks. I take it from him, brushing my fingers against his, desperate for his touch now that his Christmassy scent is swirling around me, embracing me.

“Here,” he adds, handing me a little notebook and a sparkly pink gel pen as I set my plate of snacks on my lap. “I’m going to give you suggestions as we watch, and you’re going to take notes.”

As we watch the videos, he makes comments and points things out to me, and I take notes. I lose track of time and lose count of the matches we watch, my attention on the technique and ability of the males and females we watch sparring, on what they do and how I can implement it into my own fighting.

Reid’s running commentary keeps a smile on my face. The endless flow of snacks keeps my belly full, and his blanket around my body keeps my soul content. He intersperses his notes and suggestions with jokes and teasing, but all of it stops when a blonde female appears on the screen.

We watch her match in silence, his eyes glued to the video, focusing on it with an intensity I’ve never seen on his face. It’s hard to tell in the dim early evening light, but I swear his eyes grow glassy. He pulls his lip into his mouth and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees as he watches her finish her match, pinning her opponent in less than five minutes.

“And the winner of this round is Stephanie Thomas!” the announcer declares, holding her hand up in the air to tumultuous cheers and applause.

“Thomas,” I whisper. “That’s your last name, right?” He nods, his eyes stuck on the television. “Is she related to you?”

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