Page 67 of Bite Me

“This is embarrassing enough for me without you rubbing it in. You win this one, okay? Just give me at least an hour to do damage control before you broadcast this to the whole university—”

I place my hand on the door to prevent her from closing it in my face.

“I’m not going to tell anyone. This is supposed to be our secret, remember?”

“Then why do I feel as if I’m going to wake up with an article about this on the forums?”

Emma’s remarkably good at controlling her expressions. At her initiation, her line delivery and smiles were all smooth, but she’s slipping before my eyes. Her fingernails are scraping the paint off the doorframe.

“Can I come in?”

The bite mark is still fresh on her neck, peeking from beneath her collar.

She flustered physically. Her nipples are erect through her shirt, and I sense the remaining wetness between her legs.

Emma’s guard is down. Normally, this would be a great time for me to leave her feeling confused and prevent this from progressing any further. Yet I walk into her room when she opens the door.

Her room is equal parts rainbow and tornado. It’s a collage of colors thrown everywhere—the bed, the clothes in the closet. I can’t help but smile when I spot a cat poster next to her bed.

She wedges herself between me and the poster. “It’s . . . I like this one. I didn’t want to get rid of it when I moved.”

I’m not surprised by any of it. I take a full breath and smile. I’ve never been closer to being smothered by her scent, and it’s . . . comforting. Like sitting next to a warm fire in the dead of winter.

“I have to tell you something.” I motion to her bed. “You should sit.”

“Is it mean? If it is, can we hold off until tomorrow? I’m really tired.”

“It’s not mean. I promise.” I guide her to sit, and she complies.

“Is this mine?” I point to an embroidered napkin on her nightstand that looks oddly familiar.

“No . . .”

“It has my initials.”

“I accidentally picked it up at dinner that one time . . .” She cleans the dirt from under her nails as she meets my gaze. “I was going to give it back.”

I pick it up to sniff, and it’s just what I thought.

“You kept it because of the smell, didn’t you?”

“No . . . Yes. I was going to give it back . . . eventually . . . when the smell wore off.”

“This is why I need to talk to you. You don’t need to feel embarrassed by any of this, because this isn’t your fault . . .”

There are a million reasons I shouldn’t tell her, but every time I think of leaving her in here to suffer in embarrassment and worry, I know I have to.

What’s more, for the first time . . . I want to tell her. She deserves to know, and the alternative is that I keep pushing her away, and that’s clearly not working.

She waits with her hands in her lap.

“We’re scent-matches. That’s the reason for all our issues, really.”

She shifts nervously. “Like . . . scent-matches in romance books?”

I’ve seen her reading occasionally in the dining room and on her breaks, but I can never get a look at the title.

“They make romance books about scent-matches?”