Page 29 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

“I can’t—” he groans, pulling out fast, voice wrecked. “Can’t knot you, baby.”

My brain’s still buffering when he fists his cock at the base, working it with a few rough strokes. He groans my name as he spills across his hand and the tops of my thighs, and his musky alpha scent hits instantly.

I clench instinctively around nothing—

And then everything stills.

Our breathing’s loud. The windows are fogged. My dress is bunched under my ribs like a belt of shame. My thighs make a very specific noise against the leather when I shift, and somewhere outside, a seagull screams.

I’m dripping, dazed, and I’ve just had the best orgasm of my life with a man who thinksmeal prepmeans seven containers of grilled chicken.

Still, I stay quiet. Jace doesn’t say anything either. He practically drapes himself over me, breath hot against my throat, lips lazy near my jaw. One of his hands splays possessively across my stomach, andthatis what does it.

I clear my throat, then wiggle slightly.

Bad idea.

“So,” I manage, tone all fake-casual and post-orgasmic horror. “Wanna go get a gluten-free muffin?”

He huffs a laugh, then kisses me just beneath my jaw. “Only if you let me feed it to you.”

“Oh my god.” I shove at him, weak and unconvincing. “You’re genuinely unwell.”

“Probably,” he says, smug as sin. “But you’re into it.”

I bury my face in his shoulder and groan.

He’s not wrong, and that’s the most terrifying part.

Chapter Eight

Wes

Cam’s already out cold by the time I finish work—one sock on, face mashed into the pillow, mouth open in full wartime-snore formation. He’s probably dreaming of lesson plans and labeling the spice rack by historical relevance.

The man teaches teenagers all day and still has the emotional range to care about muffin texture. He’s a saint. A deranged, sleep-deprived saint.

And I should go to bed.

Instead, I’m pacing around like a lunatic with a pheromone malfunction, replaying every version of tonight that never should’ve existed. I wouldn’t have gone out with her anyway. I had no reason to—our last conversation was a public relations crisis with eye contact.

But still, my brain won’t shut up.

Won’t stop running through what I’d have said ifI’dbeen the one in the car. What I’d have done if she’d looked atmelike that.

She looked far too good. That little dress she was wearing did things to my blood pressure I’m not proud of, and the secondI saw her standing there—brown hair falling over her shoulder, mouth curved like sheknewI was watching—my brain short-circuited.

And then I remembered Jace was the one taking her out.

And I wanted to put my fist through a wall.

The problem here—apart from the obvious, being Aimee’s presence in my life—is that we’re all scent-matched to her. It’s not just that she’s dangerous, or that I don’t trust her. It’s not even that she once tried to psychologically destroy me with glitter bombs and passive-aggressive playlists.

It’s that everything in me still wants her.

And I hate that more than anything.

I hate the way she laughs like she owns the room. I hate the way she flirts in front of my face like it’s a competitive sport. I hate how her scent—muted as it is—still crawls under my skin like it belongs there.

---