Page 7 of My Freshman Mate
Braiden
His words vibrate through my bones like a bass line turned too high. My knees buckle.
I can't breathe. Can't think. My skin tightens, shrinking around me, squeezing the air from my lungs. Wes is everywhere—his chest a wall of heat against mine, his hands branding my waist, his face buried in my neck. His scent floods my nose—sharp like the air before lightning strikes, clean sweat, and something uniquely him that makes my head spin.
My brain scrambles for a protocol, for a procedure to follow.This is Wes Chambers. Star quarterback. Campus celebrity. Alpha. Not in my plan. Not supposed to happen. Error. Stop. Run.
But my body… my traitorous body is singing a different song entirely.Alpha. Safe. Strong. Mine.
"I—" I try to speak, but my voice is a thin, pathetic whisper. "This isn't—we can't just—"
"We can," he growls against my skin, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below my ear. "We are."
I should push him away. My internal checklist flashes behind my eyes:3:15 PM: Advising. 4:30 PM: Purchase textbooks. 6:00 PM: Dinner, solitary, review syllabi.This is a catastrophic deviation. This is failure. I should be outraged at how he's taking over, this caveman display of alpha dominance.
Instead, I melt.
My head falls back against the solid wood of the door, exposing more of my neck to him in a gesture of submission so primal it bypasses my conscious thought entirely. A soft, needy sound escapes my throat, one I've never made before and don't recognize as my own.
Wes makes a sound in response—half growl, half purr—and the vibration spreads through my chest. "That's it," he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin. "Stop fighting it."
"I have a plan," I whisper again, one last desperate attempt to cling to the life I thought I wanted. "A schedule."
He lifts his head, those impossibly blue eyes locking onto mine. They're dark now, the pupils blown wide with a hunger so raw it could consume me whole. "Plans change."
Then his mouth crashes down on mine, and the last thread of my resistance snaps.
This isn't a kiss. It's a claiming. His lips are firm, demanding, taking rather than asking. His tongue pushes past my lips, exploring, conquering. It tastes of certainty, of inevitability. Of forever.
My hands, which had been pressed flat against the door behind me, fly up to grip his shoulders. My first instinct is to push him away, I think, but my fingers dig into the hard muscle instead, pulling him closer. My body is acting on its own now, responding to a code written in my DNA that overrides all the careful programming of my mind.
A sound rumbles in his chest, a growl of approval that makes heat rush through me, melting me from the inside out. Hishands slide from my waist to my hips, gripping tight enough to bruise, and I whimper into his mouth, the small pain a sharp counterpoint to the overwhelming pleasure.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard. My lips are swollen, sensitive. Claimed.
"Mine," he says, the word simple and undeniable.
And God help me, I nod.
That's all it takes. Something shifts in his eyes, a predator seeing its prey surrender. In one fluid, powerful motion, he bends and lifts me, one arm scooping under my knees, the other wrapping securely around my back. I gasp as my feet leave the floor, cradled against his chest like I weigh nothing at all.
"Wes!" I yelp, my arms wrap around his neck on instinct for balance.
He doesn't respond, carrying me through the apartment, his strides long and purposeful. I catch a blurred glimpse of the living room, the kitchen, and then we're moving down a hallway. My heart hammers in my chest, a frantic drumbeat of anticipation and terror.
The bedroom is spacious, dominated by a large bed with dark blue sheets that look rumpled and inviting. The bedsheets smell like him, clean and sharp, like fresh laundry and lightning. It's overwhelming, a cocoon of his scent that makes it impossible to think. Wes doesn't set me down gently. He tosses me onto the mattress, and I bounce once, a startled sound escaping me. Before I can recover, he's on me, his body covering mine, his weight a heavy, comforting blanket, caging me in.
"Too many clothes," he growls, his hands already working at the buttons of my shirt.
He's not careful. I hear a button pop off and ping against the hardwood floor. I should care—this shirt was part of my carefully selected "first day of college" outfit—but I don't. All Icare about is the heat of his hands on my skin as he pushes the fabric aside.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his eyes raking over my exposed chest. I am small and pale beneath his gaze, my skin prickling with goosebumps.
I want to cover myself, a wave of self-consciousness hitting me, but his hands pin my wrists to the mattress on either side of my head. The gesture is possessive, dominant, and so hot I can barely breathe.
"Wes," I gasp, not sure if I'm protesting or begging.
"Take it," he commands, his voice dropping to a low growl that seems to vibrate not in my ears, but in the hollow of my chest, a physical touch all on its own. It brooks no argument.
