Page 31 of Even Werewolves Learn

She freezes while I put the pastries next to the keys and the bouquet next to her bag, my arms caging her for a moment against her desk.

Immediately, her heart starts beating faster, and her breath catches.

But she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t push me away or tell me to move.

And in the silence of her held breath, I move slightly closer and drop my hands on either side of her.

Her throat moves, and I hear her gulp, but still, she doesn’t say anything.

I don’t know what’s going through her mind, but mine is racing, and before I know it, I move my right hand from her desk to the side of her neck, and with it, I slide her hair behind her ear.

She’s not moving. She’s not breathing.

And so, even if I know I shouldn’t, I kiss the side of her neck softly.

The main reason why I shouldn’t isn’t because she might get in trouble for it if anyone enters the room—it’s still a reason but not the main one. No, the main reason is because in this position, with my nose so close to her, all I can smell is the citrus-and-jasmine scent I’ve come to recognize as purely hers.

And it sends my brain to a place it shouldn’t.

I feel my fangs grow in my mouth as if the wolf in me is battling for control and wants to mark her as his, and my cock hardens to a point that almost hurts.

It’s only when the smell of her arousal permeates the air, and she softly moans, that I realize that I’ve erased every bit of distance I had left between us, and my cock is nestled right between her butt cheeks.

It sends another surge of blood to my cock, and I have to force myself not to rub it against her ass like an animal in heat, or I know my wolf will take over and I won’t be able to control it.

I take a step back and quickly walk to my desk, already mourning the loss of her heat and the smell of her arousal surrounding me.

Fuck. What’s happening to me?

I’ve always been able to control my wolf in the heat of sex. Why is he so eager to come out when I know perfectly well that it’s not safe for her?

I’m trying to muster anything that could get my hard-on to soften, but her smell doesn’t let down, and my eyes keep going back to her.

I’m doomed.

And it gets worse when she finally decides to open the pastry box and picks up the éclair.

I only realize now how phallic that long pastry looks when she brings it to her lips, opens her mouth, and slips it between her lips.

A quarter of it disappears, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t been watching when she did that. Because now, all I can think about is my cock slipping between those pretty pink lips, and the way they would close around it—soft and firm at the same time. I can almost imagine her tongue against the underside of my hard-on, and it doesn’t help with my situation.

This is torture.

Self-torture, but torture nonetheless.

I should be doing something for it to stop, but instead, I keep looking at her, mesmerized, as she bites into the éclair, puts it down in the box, types something on her holo-puter, and then picks it up again.

It disappears a second time between her lips, and all I can do is hold my breath as phantom pressure wraps around my cock as if it were her lips.

I know it’s a figment of my imagination, but I feel it all the same.

It makes me completely forget what I initially had planned today as I watch her eyes shine while she eats the damn pastry.

That is until she’s done with her holo-puter, and retrieves the small paperback I’ve seen her carry around in her bag for the past week.

I’ve discovered that Constance likes romance books, and that she prefers reading paperbacks over e-books. I thought those had completely disappeared, but I’m obviously wrong if the pink cover currently looking at me is any indication.

I’ve been tracking her bookmark in this one book—Pleine lune à Paris—since I saw her reading it in between classes.