Chapter Seventeen

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

She knew things wouldn't change much between them, after that. Because of course whatever lust he was feeling toward her wasn't real. It was just a weird werewolf thing, triggered by events he barely understood. Like a gushing comment, or too much contact after too little, or violent assholes making him be all protective. Or her scent, which was most likely loaded with all kinds of hormones and pheromones and other chemicals his body appreciated.

And she could simply avoid every one of those things.

The assholes weren't going to be coming back any time soon to trigger protectiveness on Seth's part. They're afraid of you, he told her simply, when she asked. You made them shift their whole territory twenty miles away. I checked them out a few days ago and they ran when they caught my scent.

So that was that. Or, at least, it was for now.

And as for the other triggers, well. She could easily stop herself from gushing over him, or touching him unexpectedly. Neither of those were things she had done intentionally, or liked doing. Which only left her scent—and there were definitely ways to mask it.

A simple blocking potion, used like soap and shampoo, saw to that.

By the time he came over next, she felt pretty sure she smelled like nothing to him. In fact, she knew she did, because after she'd called for him to come in, he just stood tensely in the archway that led into the kitchen. Breath held, shoulders hunched, one hand raised. Like he was just there for a quick hello. A reassurance, she thought, that he hadn't abandoned her.

And that felt pretty awesome, she had to say.

But even more awesome when she saw the realization dawn all over his face.

His expression went from strained panic, to a kind of soft confusion, to something so full of relief it made her heart lift. And he let himself come into the kitchen. Tentatively, while taking slow breaths. But he did it. He got all the way to the kitchen table. Tried sitting down, just to see how it went.

And when he managed, oh the laugh that broke out of him. "Fuck, that is so smart. A scent blocker. Why didn't I think of that?" he asked, then seemed perfectly content to be across from her. As if everything else—her face, her body, her personality—meant precisely nothing to him, attraction-wise. And that was good. It was fine.

It was great, in fact. It meant they had a stopgap now.

A way to spend time together—both as friends, and as a team to work on his problem.

Because if she was being honest, she already knew she was going to need his help. This potion—to break the connection between horniness and turning, or to stop him from feeling desires he didn't want—felt complicated, in a way the other potions hadn't. In fact, every time she tried to think about it, her mind seemed to slide sideways, or circle it nervously, or give her answers she didn't understand.

You need to satisfy the requirements , it kept telling her.

And all of this made her really glad for his presence. And not just because it meant he could offer solutions or suggestions, or give her clippings of his hair and his fur and other bananas stuff like that. No, there was also something else. Something he had often done back when they were kids, and now just started up again like it was nothing.

He organized the study area.

She had spilled the contents of her old pencil case over the table; he neatly lined up all the pens and pencils and erasers and highlighters. Then he grabbed the two guides whose pages she'd been dog-earing, and replaced the folded corners with little Post-it labels. Ones that he scribbled on, and cross-referenced, in a notepad she didn't remember having.

She saw him jot down ingredients and how to obtain them—like fairyroot, which involved burying an item owned by a fairy beneath a patch of moss, and frostweed, which could be found growing over anything dead beneath a frozen lake. Then he added questions to terms that weren't quite clear. Need to find out what molloch is, he wrote, on a tag he applied next to the circled and mysteriously definitionless word.

And finally, he tidied the file she'd opened on her laptop.

Instead of hiw to hekp an horny wwrwolf , in a terrible font, it became: How to Help a Hungry Werewolf , in his favorite one, Book Antiqua.

Because she had always been the sloppy ideas girl, and he had always been the tidy idea polisher, and apparently nothing had changed. They just fell back into their old patterns, like it was nothing. Like horny awkwardness wasn't even a thing.

In fact, by day three she was starting to think it possibly wasn't.

That maybe he had gotten worked up over nothing.

It's not just that he isn't actually attracted to you that's keeping him calm , her mind suggested. But the fact that lots of simple, boring exposure to the way you are is actively killing whatever pheromones and danger and touching briefly created.

And okay, that sounded a little extreme. But a lot of things did seem to bear it out.

Like the day before, when their hands had accidentally brushed as she passed him a spoonful of potion to try. The contact had sent a jolt all the way up her arm. It had made her drop the spoon. But he had just mused about the taste of the sample. Sort of reminds me of root beer, he had said. Nice, but does nothing at all.

And then there was that morning. When she'd leaned over him without thinking to look at something he'd pointed to on the laptop screen. She had immediately registered the mistake. She had felt every inch of that sliver of space between them, like a crackling forcefield she shouldn't cross.

But he hadn't. He'd just smiled at her blandly.

Like it was all nothing to him, in a way she should have felt relieved about. She was relieved about it. There was no other way to feel, if she was being honest about it. Things were exactly as they had always seemed. They were exactly as they were supposed to be, in every single possible way. Because even though he had shown her he wasn't an ass about how she was, he was still the kind of man who dated Prom Queens.

And that was fine by her. She no longer felt like she had to be Kayleigh Mathers or Jessica Yates, to be attractive. She didn't base her self-esteem on whether the Great Seth Brubaker deemed her acceptable to date.

It simply made sense, when he didn't react to certain things about her.

Like when the top button on her jersey popped open, as she stood, revealing most of her cleavage. And he didn't even glance at it. His eyes were firmly on her face when she said, "I think we should grab some dinner, you coming?"

Then they just flicked back to the laptop screen.

"Yeah, I'll catch up. Just give me five minutes," he said. As if by that point he was so disinterested, he wasn't even concerned about her walking alone in the near dark.

First day we did this he wanted to get breakfast together, just in case those assholes did dare try something, she thought, as she tugged on her jacket, and pulled on her sneakers. But he still wasn't looking up. It was like his eyes had been magnetized to the screen. She was starting to wonder if someone with boobs he did want to look at was on there.

Then just as she went for the door, she heard a sound.

A kind of long, keening whine that seemed to get louder and louder and louder. Until finally, blessedly, it broke. And suddenly, there was Seth, barking out words. "Okay, stop. I can't stand it, just stop. Please. Don't go out without me," he said desperately. Like it was some kind of unbearable agony not to.

Though when she turned, he was still sitting at the table.

And he didn't do anything to rectify that, as she stood there waiting.

"All right. So are you going to get up, or…"

"I can't just yet. Gimme a minute."

"But why? Are you in pain?"

He winced, which suggested he was. Though he didn't exactly explain. "Something like that," he said without looking at her. And that meant dragging it out of him, before he wound up dying of some other terrible thing he wasn't telling her about.

"So then let me help you. Let me fix it."

"No, you can't fix this. It'll go away. I just need to concentrate."

"On what? Wishing the agony would leave? I have pain potions."

She stepped to the potion shelf, and started gathering ones she could imagine him needing. Ache Healer seemed like a safe bet, she thought. And Muscle Relaxer was probably going to be of use. But just as she was getting to the pouring-into-a-spoon step, he stopped her.

"That's not gonna help," he said.

And she knew, as soon as he did, that she was not going to want to know what would. Though like a fool, she went ahead and asked anyway. "Give me one reason why not," she demanded, all cockily. Hands on hips, and everything.

Then got this in return: "Because I am pretty sure that the magic equivalent of aspirin does nothing for giant erections that I have been desperately trying to keep my buddy from beholding with her poor innocent eyes, for what feels like a week."

And oh god he was not kidding.

He was really not.

She could see that he wasn't, because he stood as he said it. And man , there was a lot to see. Too much, if she was being honest. She almost proved him right on that "poor innocent eyes" comment, by covering them. Before she managed to get hold of herself, and react sensibly.

"So what you are saying is you have just been sitting there with an erection for the last three days. Without even thinking that this might be worth mentioning to me at any point during that unhinged amount of time," she said, as calmly as she could. While he quite clearly panicked, for no good reason she could think of.

"If I mention it, I have to explain why it happened," he said.

"Well, you managed before."

"Before, I had good-sounding reasons."

She gave him a look. "And now the reasons are all really bad?"

"Well, they're definitely getting worse, let's put it that way."

"Maybe you should let me be the judge of what's worse."

He flopped back into his chair. Sighed, heavily. "I can't. If I do, you'll try to do something about it. Which was totally fine when it was just you blocking your scent, or not grabbing me, or not saying sort of hot things to me. All those things were not fundamental changes to who you are. But this is. This would be. You would do things differently to make it easier for me to cope. You would feel self-conscious. And I just don't want you to. The very idea is gross to me."

"So it's something like—you saw my bra strap."

"Cassie, I have barely looked below your chin the whole time we've been doing this."

He said it so casually that for a second she couldn't respond. Her brain just ran slap-bang into a wall of that means he's delib erately avoiding looking at things down there. As if those things down there might trigger some kind of horny response .

And that was… well, it was a lot to process, for someone who'd spent the last few days thinking nothing like that could be affecting him. Who had spent the last decade thinking it could never. He had pressed the idea into her so firmly she didn't know how to think anything else.

So it left her panicking a little. And searching for ways to laugh it off. "Maybe if you did it would help, considering the overalls I'm wearing," she said, but wow, the withering look he gave her. The snort he let out, before he spoke.

"You mean the ones I know are so tight I can see every one of your soft, delicious curves underneath them, and also so threadbare it would take almost nothing to tear them off? Those overalls? Yeah, they're a real buzzkill."

Soft , she thought. Delicious , she thought.

Then seemed to hear sirens blaring at the back of her head.

She had to ask for clarification just to keep herself sane.

"Seth, I'm going to need you to explain this more."

"But it doesn't matter what explanation I give you. How respectful I want to be of you, how careful of our friendship, how much I attempt to push these feelings down or tell myself they're not real. All that matters is what my body is telling me."

"And what is your body telling you here, exactly?"

"That you look fucking hot in tight clothes," he said, like someone had whacked him on the back, and forced a cough out of him. Only the cough was just the truth, of a kind he definitely didn't want to say. He had to put his face in his hands after he had. He groaned the rest of his words through his fingers. "I can't believe I just confessed that to you."

And god, she came so close to saying, I like that you did .

In fact, the only thing that stopped her was the other things he said. That it wasn't real, that he wanted to push it down, that it was all just something inside him, warping his usual perspective. All of those things ran through her head, and then reassurances came out of her, instead.

"You should be glad you confessed," she said. "Because now I can tell you it's not a big deal."

"It will be when you choose a gigantic fucking sack to wear tomorrow."

"Somehow I don't think a sack would put you off, if these don't."

He let his hands drop. Most likely because the embarrassment was fading, as the argument took over. "Of course it would. I mean it would drown you," he said in an almost exasperated voice. But then he made the mistake of continuing. "Nothing would be visible. Everything would be hidden, and secret, underneath all that material. You'd only ever be able to see the smallest hint of something sweet, and so soft, and—ohhhh okay, right, yeah, I see what you mean. I might be grasping the issue now."

And she laughed to see and hear it happen. The way he'd started out making sense.

Then somehow talked himself into drooling over her imaginary sack dress.

"Yeah, because the issue is any clothes would do," she said, and knew she was right.

Even if he wouldn't yet concede entirely.

"Maybe. But there are other things. More specific things."

"So tell me them. We already managed to explain one, in a way other than you being super into me or just behaving like a massive creep. I bet we can manage to do whatever else there is, too. So come on. Stop repressing it. Get it off your chest."

He raised an eyebrow. "So is this your professional witchy advice, Dr. Camberwell?" he asked. And okay yeah, he was joking. But at the same time, she kind of didn't think he was. His gaze didn't quite hit amused; his smile was teasing, but not a smirk.

Like maybe part of him really was starting to see her that way:

As someone two seconds away from getting their medical degree in witchery.

And weirdly? That kind of felt right. She found herself thinking of what they were doing as treating him, as treating a patient, as treating a supernatural patient, and felt a strange little thrill. Like the kind of feeling she imagined other people got, when they realized what they wanted to do with their lives. Or simply remembered dreams they'd once had, come back to them in a slightly different form. Maybe that was why some part of me wanted to be a doctor or a nurse , she thought. And that felt so satisfying she could feel a smile trying to spread over her face.

Though she didn't let him change the subject entirely. "Honestly? Maybe," she replied. "I've got the strongest urge to write this down."

And got an eye roll for it. "Great. So my shameful lusting will be preserved forever."

"It's not shameful to lust. It's shameful to foist it on other people when other people haven't asked. To act on it in ways that you are definitely not doing. I mean, you just hid your erection from me for three days, Seth. You've been a complete gentleman, despite the extreme pressure you're under. So you know what? Go ahead. Hit me with your best shot."

That got him, she thought. She even knew exactly what word had done it—gentleman. She said it, and his eyes flashed all bright and hopeful. Like maybe, just maybe, he was getting through this in a decent manner. And if he shared it with her, maybe that decency would become a permanent fixture. A part of his foundation. Something immutable and steadying.

"If I tell you this stuff, will you swear to not change who you are? Or think I want to be thinking this?" he asked. And in response, she held up the Vulcan salute. Like they used to do when they were kids, and a promise was being made.

"You have my solemn and most heartfelt vow that I shall never. On the name of our lord and savior Wes Craven. Amen," she said, then got a laugh for her troubles.

Though when she looked back, the amusement was gone.

And in its place was something hesitant. But determined.

"All right. All right. If you think it will be okay, I'll tell you. I can do this. I just have to, you know. Do it real quick. Like ripping off a Band-Aid," he started. Then he closed his eyes, and took a breath, and let it just burst out of him. "Every time you figure something out, you make this really incredibly super-excited noise."

And after he had, he seemed to brace. As if he was just waiting for her disgusted reaction.

Even though she had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

"You mean the one where I sound like a chipmunk?"

"You don't sound like a chipmunk to me."

"So tell me what I do sound like, then."

"Close to coming."

As soon as it was out, she could see he hadn't meant to put it quite like that.

He winced on that last word. Then mouthed the word "sorry."

But unfortunately, the word "sorry" didn't help her. Because now she had to pretend that she wasn't reeling. You just heard Seth say "coming." He said "coming," as in an orgasm, as in me making that noise makes that happen, her brain babbled, before she could stop it, and force it back into being an adult. Adults discuss things like their sex lives, she told herself.

Then made her voice as dry as she could.

"That is very cool to say, Seth, but you're drunk on werewolf hormones."

"Werewolf hormones are making me super feel it and say it. They're not making things that are false and ridiculous suddenly true and reasonable. That little breathy noise is sexy. Most of your excitement is sexy. You always get all flushed, and you bite that plump, soft, lower lip of yours, and then you—" he started to say, then seemed to realize what he was saying, and hauled himself back.

Even though he didn't need to.

They were grown-ups. This was fine. It was fine.

She was going to prove it was fine.

"Then I what?" she asked, nonchalantly.

But he was definitely losing his nerve. He shook his head.

Looked at his fingers, and the eraser they were busy fiddling with.

"No, Cass. I don't want to go over this part."

"Oh come on. You've said all the rest."

"Yeah, but the next part is really graphic. And I already feel like I'm talking dirty to you."

Because you are , she thought at him, automatically, unbidden. Even though that wasn't true in the slightest. He'd barely said anything, for starters. And even if he had, well. This was just helping him through stuff.

It was almost a science project. A doctor's appointment. A way to test how far he could go while under the extra-strength Feel Better, and the scent blocker, and the threat of the Make Nice. They're probably mingling in the air to hold him in , she thought, and that sounded plausible.

Or at least plausible enough to let him go on.

"All you did was mention my squeaking. I think you're safe to continue without veering into the land of saying filthy things to me," she said—which seemed to work. He hesitated again, but eventually, eventually, he managed to digest that concept enough to confess a little more.

"You suck your pencil when you're thinking," he said, too loud and too fast.

Though the words were still pretty tame in her opinion.

Not to mention nonsensical.

"It can't be that. You hated when I used to do it."

"I hated it because you never knew where the pencil had come from," he sighed. "Not because it was super horrible to look at or anything. I mean, I didn't get turned on over it, of course I didn't. That totally never happened. But it wasn't unpleasant. And now it's really super not unpleasant, in about twenty ways."

"Name one way, I dare you."

"Your lips look all pouty when you do it."

"My lips are not pouty," she snorted.

But all that did was get him almost rolling his eyes at her.

"Come on, Cass. They are—and even if they weren't, it wouldn't matter. They would still look good doing something like that. Because the thing is, you do it really slowly, and you slide it really far in, and sometimes I can see your tongue curling around it as you do in this really slick, dirty-looking way, and ohhhh god what am I saying?" he asked, so despairingly that he ended his sentence by putting his face in his hands.

And then she had to somehow hide that she wanted to put her face in hers.

"Nothing that I can't handle," she said. But that didn't seem to help him.

"Don't say that, it makes me want to go further," he groaned through his fingers. And okay, at that point she couldn't help being a little shocked. Or sounding somewhat breathless.

"There's further than me giving a blowjob to a writing implement?"

"Well, maybe not when you put it like that."

"I'm only saying what you said."

He gave her an indignant look. "All I did was describe it."

"Describing is worse."

"Then I'll stop. I should stop."

"It doesn't sound like you want to anymore."

What the fuck did you say that for , her mind wanted to know. Because she had to admit, it didn't seem like she was merely running a test anymore. It didn't sound like her professional opinion on the matter. It seemed like she was urging him on, for her own reasons. Like she wanted to hear him talk like this. Like she was enjoying something about it.

Even though she wasn't, she truly wasn't. She simply couldn't help encouraging him, every time it seemed as if he wanted to go further. And especially when there was no reason he shouldn't. Her kitchen was a safe place. She had no objections. If he felt like it, why not?

And she could tell he definitely did.

He dropped his hands from his face when she said those last words. And now he was holding her gaze, steadily. Almost dazedly. As if he were slowly falling into a dream.

Though she didn't think it was an ordinary one.

She thought it might be the kind that made you wake up to wet sheets.

In fact, she knew it was, because his gaze now looked even heavier than it had before. And when he spoke again, his voice sounded like it had been dipped in warm syrup. "Because I don't want to stop. I want to tell you all about what you looked like earlier, when you were eating. What it did to me, to see the gloss of that sauce all over your lips. How it felt, watching it spill over your fingers, and down, down, down. And though I tried not to think about where it went, I knew anyway. I knew it made a long, slick trail over the swell of your gorgeous breasts. And all I could think about when it did was how good it would be to lick it off you, nice and slow," he said.

At which point, she felt that maybe things were careening slightly out of control.

And not just because he'd said words she could never have imagined Seth saying to her—about her breasts, and about licking them, and about doing it slowly. No, there was also the fact that she found herself leaning forward when he did.

And worse: he was leaning forward too.

He was so close now that she could see the flecks of deep brown in those caramel eyes. She could smell the tang of strawberry from the bubblegum he apparently still liked, on his breath. Could feel the heat rolling off him, and sliding all over her.

Then suddenly there it was, on the tip of her tongue.

"And after that?" she asked.

Like it didn't matter if things were getting out of control.

All that mattered was sleepwalking right into this with him.

"That depends on what you might do if I did," he said, and now she didn't even think twice about it. She answered, too quick and too breathless.

"So if I moaned, and arched into your mouth," she said.

Then got his eyes stuttering closed as a reward.

"Ohhhh god, you're not serious."

"Why wouldn't I be, when we're talking about someone licking me?"

"Just ‘someone' then. Just anyone. Just the idea of it is making you think you would," he said, because apparently even in the midst of horny hypnosis, he was thinking the same thoughts she was. He was feeling out the boundaries, and wondering whether they were crossing them. Trying to see where she stood, so he didn't go beyond it.

But the problem was: she didn't know anymore.

All she knew was how much she wanted to go with it.

"Well, it's not really me that's making you hot, right? You're just stuffed full of werewolf hormones and sex-starved and so desperate to come, oh god you must be aching to come. I bet anyone could do almost anything, and you would cream your jeans," she said, and this time his eyes didn't just stutter closed. They rolled closed, helplessly. Like someone passing out from near indescribable levels of pleasure.

And right on the end of that, he murmured words under his breath.

As if he didn't want her to hear them.

But kind of did, at the same time.

"Just you talking like that is enough," he said.

After which, she simply had to keep going. "So maybe I should say more."

"Honestly I'm a second away from begging you to."

"You don't have to beg. I want you to feel good," she said. And the second she got his reaction—the second he looked at her with heated desperation—more words spilled out of her in a great tumble. "I want you to moan, and buck, and get so hard that you just can't take it anymore. You can't do anything, except stroke yourself, right here in front of me. And then just when you're about to burst, just when you tell me, oh Cassie I'm gonna come, I'll unbutton my top for you. And you can do it all over every single thing you wanted to lick with that dirty little tongue."

Though, god, she didn't expect the reaction she got.

Somehow she had imagined they were still in the shallow end of whatever this was, barely doing anything at all. Yet he just seemed to lose it, the second she finished speaking. Like all of this was some kind of trigger. Pull it, and every last bit of his sense was blown away. He could no longer sit still, or stay calm, or not make many sounds.

He groaned, loud and long and guttural.

And then he said things. Impossible things. Incredible things, like oh you dirty girl. Then just as she was reeling over that, she realized what all of this meant. She grasped it, in a great rush of heat and shock.

He was coming.

He was actually coming, without so much as a hand on himself. And so hard, too. God, she had never seen any man come the way he did. She'd never seen any man shudder like that, violently enough that it rocked the table. Or arch their back as he did—in one long, sinuous roll that left him sprawled against the chair.

It was incredible.

Too incredible, if she was being honest about it. Because even though she tried to stay calm, she knew she wasn't at all. She could feel how flushed she was. She could see her hands shaking. And even though neither of those things meant much on their own, she knew the sound she made did. Because it wasn't surprise, or amusement, or encouragement.

It was excitement, plain and simple.

It had excited her to think of him like that.

And there was no undoing that now.