Chapter 53

Prue

He stares at me with his jaw tight clearly contemplaiting what to tell me and what to keep. Perhaps he said more than he wanted me to know. At least I would never confess to him something like this.

"But now I’m sitting here thinking, silly me, maybe I should’ve just done it years ago – because my mate apparently has the patience of a toddler on a sugar high." His tone is dry, clipped, a little mocking. But underneath it, I catch something else. Regret? Maybe. Not my problem though. Se.x is fun. Passion is human. (Or, well, wolf.) I get the whole “wait for your true love” thing – but in my case? It wasn’t some drunk mistake. It was real – warm and tender. I mean at least once. Somehwere in the background I've registered that he has called me "my mate" for the first time ever, but I don't have time to pay too much attention to it now.

"But... everyone at school says you're a fuc.kboy," I mutter, still trying to recalibrate everything I thought I knew about him.

He scoffs, like that rumor’s a fly buzzing too close.

"Yeah. Gossip girls needed their fantasy. Most of them just gave me head. Then told their friends they 'rode me like a stallion' because no one wanted to look like a loser. I never denied it. Didn’t really care." Damn, so I misjudged him – badly.

"So you see?" he adds, giving me a half-hearted eye-roll. "I’m not the bad guy here."

"Well, I’m not the bad guy either!" I snap back. So what if I was a lone wolf? Like that was my choice.

"I thought I will meet my mate when I will be 40 years old, so no se.x policy was never on my list." I add in case he ment this.

We lock eyes, and the silence between us crackles like dry leaves over fire. Neither of us gives an inch. Neither of us will. This mate bond? It’s not some sweet cosmic harmony – it’s a goddamn war zone.

Mates are supposed to balance each other out. Complete the other. Instead, we’re tossing gasoline on each other's fire – and if we're not careful, we're going to burn this whole thing down.

This is never going to work out, right?

I tilted my head, studying him more closely. For the longest time, I’d pegged him as your typical arrogant manwho.re. I’d cursed him for it. Hell, I’d kicked him in the balls for it. But now – now he turns out to be this sweet, quietly romantic guy who’s been saving himself for his mate?

My mate is a virgin. There’s something oddly adorable and deeply satisfying about that. Like I’ve just stumbled onto a secret treasure no one else has touched.

"I'm sorry," I murmur, more to the room than to him.

"For what?" he grumbles, not looking at me.

"For misjudging you," I shrug. I know wrong when I see wrong, and I definitely saw it in myself just now. He only responds with a quiet “Hmm,” like he’s not sure what to do with my apology.

I glance at his lips – full, plush, and suddenly a hundred times more tempting now that I know they haven’t been passed around like party favors. My brain is so biased, it’s ridiculous.

“How many gave you head?” I ask, trying to sound neutral.

In reality, it’s jealousy – curiosity dressed in self-justification, because apparently being his mate also comes with a possessive streak I didn’t sign up for. He gives me a look that screams Why do I have to reply to that? but still answers, “I didn’t count.”

Ugh. Of course, he didn’t.

“How many did you kiss?” I press, not even pretending to be chill now.

“Few,” he mutters, his gaze dropping briefly to my lips.

At least that one sounds honest. And now I can’t stop thinking about how few girls have felt those lips and how I want to be the last one to ever do so.

“Why only a few?” I ask, trying to distract my one-tracked mind with questions of fake curiosity.

He exhales, slow and bitter. “Because kissing leads to more. It sparks lust, desire, makes it harder to stay in control. So I figured, the less I kiss, the less chance I’ll do something stupid and break my promise to myself about waiting for my mate.” He pauses. “Though now, it just feels like a dumb idea.” He adds bitterly. He’s talkative today – vulnerable and honest. And it’s melting something in me I didn’t even know could soften. It’s like a switch was flipped and he suddenly looks ridiculously kissable.

And then – an impulse. I crawl across the table toward him, ignoring whatever’s under my knees and palms. He leans back a little, surprised, but I don’t stop until our faces are inches apart.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low, brow furrowed.

But his eyes – oh, his eyes – they falter, stuttering over my lips like a skipped heartbeat – and that tiny stumble speaks louder than any words.

I kiss him. Hard. His lips are softer than I remeber, and the sparks… they’re not just sizzling. They’re electric, flooding my veins and setting my skin alight.

His mouth opens and so does mine, our tongues meeting like they’ve been waiting years for this. I feel mint and something sweet, it’s seems that could be my new favorite taste. I slide one hand into his hair, the other bracing against the table as I deepen the kiss. He responds instantly, and suddenly we’re not just kissing – we’re consuming each other.

I balance my hands on his shoulders and I move forward until I can slide onto his lap, the chair tipping dangerously. I grab the table behind me and steady us, straddling him fully now. He holds me tight – strong arms wrapping around me, grounding me while my mind spins. The heat between us is scorching. Everywhere our skin touches, sparks dance like tiny explosions. It’s oddly satisfying.

And damn, it's nice – unexpectedly nice – to just sit in his lap. Like sinking into a brand new sofa... if that sofa were made of pure and hard muscle as oak.

My fingers tangle deeper in his hair as I grind my hips against him. He’s hard – really hard – and the pressure is driving me wild.

I’m creaming in my jeans. I want more. Goddess, I want everything. I should have not come here.

But now that I have – I want him to take me here, now, on this table. Screw logic. Screw plans. I said I’d reject him – but right now? Right now I want to mate him. Right now, I want to burn as my body is buzzing with unrecognized joy.

It’s official, I’m bipolar.

He growls – low and primal – and something in me shatters at the sound. I pull his hair and bite his lip, drawing blood. He growls again, gripping my hips and grinding me harder against him. Oh, Goddess! I feel like I could explode just from that.

I have to get out of here. Before I do something I can’t take back. I jump off his lap, breathless, eyes wild. I move toward the door, avoiding his gaze.

“I wanted to take a walk before I came here,” I mumble, trying to sound casual. But it’s lame, I know it’s lame.

I don’t wait for his reply. I bolt, sprinting down the hall, through the doors, and into the woods until the cold air finally hits my burning skin.

Stupid, stupid me. I don’t even think he’ll follow. This isn’t about him – it’s me I don’t trust. What if I turned around and demanded him to take me right then and there?

No. I need to run. I need to breathe. I need to cool the hell down. Why did I start to kiss him? I will never be able to go back from this... Teasing him was one thing but being out of control myself was something entirely different.