Me: Where?
A pause. Just long enough to piss me off.
Benji: [Location Pin — Byrne's]
I grab my jacket. I know showing up makes me look exactly as whipped and possessive as he wants me to. I don't give a fuck.
Byrne's is a sticky-floored college dive. Not my scene. The bartender—a guy built like a brick wall—clocks me the second I walk in. I ignore him and scan the crowd.
Then I see him.
Blue streak in his hair, heavy eyeliner, combat boots hooked on the rung of his stool. He’s wearing a black goth kilt and a shirt with the collar pulled wide, leaving the angry red bite mark on his neck on full display.
And there’s an alpha leaning into his space. Campus type. Decent build. His hand is hovering way too close to Benji’s elbow. Benji’s half-facing him, giving just enough of a polite smile to keep the guy hooked.
Benji’s eyes flick to the mirror behind the bar. He catches my reflection, and his shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. He got what he wanted.
The random alpha’s hand drifts closer.
Something hot and feral snaps in my chest. I cross the room in ten seconds.
I don’t even look at the random guy. I slide my hand under the hem of Benji’s shirt, my palm flattening against the warm, bare skin of his lower back. I do it like I own the place. Like I own him.
Benji turns. His breath catches, a flush creeping up his neck from the bite mark. His scent spikes—sharp, warm, broadcasting everything his smug face won't.
He gives me a triumphant, challenging look.You came. Now what?
I finally look at the alpha. My scent floods the space, thick and territorial. "He's taken," I say.
The guy looks at my hand, looks at the bite, and does the math. He backs off without a word.
"Subtle," Benji says, taking a sip of his drink.
"You sent me a pin drop, sweetheart. Don't pretend you didn't want me here."
His jaw clicks shut. He doesn't have a fast enough comeback, and the silence is thick with our scents mixing. I lean in, my mouth brushing his ear. "Outside. Now."
He goes.
We hit the alley. It smells like wet asphalt and cold air, but we barely make it two steps before I shove him against the brick wall.
My hands are on him. His mouth is on mine. It’s all teeth and heat and the cold scrape of his nose ring against my lip. I pin his wrists above his head with one hand. He arches off the wall, letting out a sound into my mouth that sends all the blood straight to my cock.
The bar’s bass thumps through the brick. Someone laughs loudly on the other side of the metal door. Benji’s eyes flick toward the sound.
I press my mouth to his ear. "Better keep quiet, then."
He grins, sharp and feral. "Make me."
He fights my grip—just enough to test me. I squeeze his wrists tighter. His hiss turns into a groan, his hips rolling against mine.
"Took you long enough," he breathes, his voice rough. "Thought you'd just send a text."
"I'm here, aren't I?" My free hand yanks his kilt up, and I fist the side of his underwear, snapping the side band in a single motion. His cock springs free, flushed and hard. I slide my hand between his legs. He’s soaked. Slick and hot, his hole already swollen and leaking. "You're already wet for me."
"That's biology, not a compliment."
"Sure it is." I shove two fingers into him.