Page 81 of Bite Me

“So this is nice, then?”

There’s a pause, and she whispers in her sleepy voice, “This is the best.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Dacre

There’s a problem.

All the guests from the culinary club make their way to the kitchen, including Emma. Only her scent is growing stronger, slowly. Minute by minute. Second by second.

I noticed it first last night when I lay in bed, pillows between us, and woke up from being dead asleep. The hours that passed afterward were maddening.

Emma slept soundly next to me with her fluffy eye mask, aside from some wild turning that only stopped when she nudged the pillow wall away and placed her hand on my arm.

“How you doing, boss?” Luther smirks, prepping his station.

“Never better,” I lie, averting my eyes from her. The last thing I want is Luther and Verity catching any hint of us being scent-matches. They’ve been trying to get dirt on me for years.

Luckily, we have an instructor coming for the workshop today, and I don’t need to teach anything. I don’t think I can be close to her, let alone go back to our shared suite. I’ll have to settle for sleeping somewhere else on the grounds.

Emma’s laughter carries through the high ceilings of the kitchen. There are two sets of stairs on either end of the room, with ovens on the bottom and most of the counters and prep stations on the top.

Her scent runs through me, and I grip the table. Oh, fuck. It’s as if she’s calling for me, begging me to run my tongue over her skin and bury myself inside her.

Emma is ovulating.

It’s happened before, but this . . . feels different. It must have to do with our proximity. We’ve been spending all this time together; our bodies know each other. Her body is naturally calling for me, sending out signals she can’t control.

My head pounds, heat rushes under my skin, and my muscles tighten. The urge to run over and snatch her is so strong that I grab the nearest food item and start chopping. I can get through this. It’s just one weekend.

“I thought we were having some competition today?” Luther asks, furrowing a bushy brow in my direction.

“You’ll compete. I’m chopping.”

I’ve already finished one, and I grab another. “Could you get me more?”

“Sure . . . Like one or two?”

“The whole bin.” I point my knife at the ingredients table. “Bring the entire thing of onions and drop it right here.”

“Are you skipping the lesson?”

“I’m chopping. You’re following instructions. Go get my onions.”

“Got it. Makes total sense that you want to cut onions throughout the entire class. Want me to bring the garlic, too?” He drags his feet on his way to the ingredients table.

“Yes. Bring that bin, too.”

I focus on the blade and the smooth cuts and cracks on the cutting board. Is my hand shaking? Fuck. Fuck. Don’t look at her. Emma doesn’t exist today. I don’t feel anything.

Her scent wafts in closer, and I drop my knife.

I need her like a drug. Like air. As if I’ve been starved for weeks and she’s the first plate of food I’ve seen. Only this . . . doesn’t have anything to do with her blood. My brain won’t stop churning through visions of setting her on the counter, pulling down her panties, and tasting her. It’s so intense that I close my eyes and lay my head across the coolness of my cutting board. The onion smell helps, and I’m pretty sure I’m getting little bits in my hair. I’m a grown man, dammit.

“Here’s your . . . Are you okay?” Luther asks.

“I’m feeling a little sick . . . but I can push through.”