Chapter 51: Sadie: Human Anatomy

SADIE

My heart is still racing when Trey obeys and drops into his chair beside mine, but even that comes at a price. He props his jaw in his palm, leans closer, and openly watches me.

The history book in front of me receives my full attention in return. Or it would, if I could get beyond the same sentence I’ve been rereading since he sat down.

His breath brushes the side of my face, warm and slow. Between that and the weight of his stare, ignoring him is a very demanding job.

"What are you doing?" I ask without turning.

"What do you mean?"

He leans even closer until half his large head enters my line of sight, forcing me to acknowledge him unless I plan to spend the rest of the session reading with one eye closed.

"We’ve already lost almost an hour," I tell him. "If you actually want to win this Trial, we need to stop messing around and get serious."

"Quiz Bowl," he draws out like he knows how much I hate being called that. "Do you have any idea how human anatomy works?"

My confusion wins over my determination not to look at him. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Instead of answering, he lowers his attention to something beneath the table. One of his hands follows.

He cannot possibly be planning whatever my mind has just suggested, can he?

A second later, his fingers close around my chair.

"What are you—?"

He pulls before I finish asking.

The chair lurches sideways, dragging me with it as its legs scrape across the floor. My stomach follows several seconds behind. I clutch the edge of the table, saving myself from the humiliation of sliding straight off the seat.

"Trey!"

When the chair finally stops moving, my notes are no longer positioned safely in front of me.

He is.

"Why do you always do this?" I glare at him.

"I’m going to give you a lesson in human anatomy," he says.

I blank out on him, my eyes widening as heat spreads across my face. Of all the words he could’ve chosen, human anatomy might be the worst.

Surely, he isn’t referring to what happened three minutes ago. Surely, he doesn’t intend to explain the hard thing I felt against my thigh as if I somehow missed what it was.

Calm down, brain. Not everything is about his dick.

"What does human anatomy have to do with the Trial?" I demand.

Trey places a hand on the edge of my chair and leans closer. "Do you know how much being claimed by scent turns me on?"

I grow momentarily speechless.

The words reach my ears perfectly well. The problem begins when my brain is expected to process them. Is he actually discussing this with me?

"I didn’t claim you," I say. "And I didn’t ask what turns you on."

"No, but you did complain that I didn’t smell like you."

Embarrassment prickles across my skin again. "That was different."

"If you say so." His mouth tilts. "Either way, your scent is on me now. Any girl who gets close will take the hint."

"What hint?"

"That I belong to someone. You marked me, Quiz Bowl."

A scoff escapes me. "That’s not how it works."

"Do you not want it to work that way?"

My mouth opens, but every reasonable answer disappears before one can come out. I should tell him his logic is ridiculous. I should remind him that transferring a little scent is not the same thing as claiming someone.

Instead, I’m thinking about what claiming Trey would actually mean. Everyone knowing he’s mine. The two of us being together for real.

Then my mind, having already abandoned good judgment, puts us in the kitchen making out against the counter. His hand is under my shirt, the other is sliding up my thigh, and somehow, my leg is around his waist while I feel how hard he is all over again.

The worst part is how good it feels in my head. How easily I imagine pulling him closer, kissing him harder, and letting his hand move higher.

Wait.

Why am I thinking about this?

I shake my head hard enough to throw out the entire kitchen scene. When everything comes back into focus, Trey is still watching me, and there’s something far too knowing in his expression.

"I wasn’t imagining anything," I blurt.

His lips twitch.

A second too late, I realize I’ve answered a question he never asked.

"You just did, didn’t you?"

"No."

"It’s fine." His amusement grows. "Most people can’t resist this face. I’ll be understanding when you finally admit you want me."

I shoot to my feet.

Distance. I need enough of it to remember that he’s unbearable—and enough air for my lungs to start functioning properly again.

Heat has spread from my face to my neck. I fan myself while Trey remains comfortably seated, watching me like he had nothing to do with any of this.

Worse, even with that grin still on his face, he doesn’t seem to be joking. He delivers every thing he says with the confidence of someone stating facts.

That I claimed him. That having my scent on him turned him on. That no one with working eyesight could resist him forever.

"I am never, ever going to be into you," I force out, more to myself than to him. "So don’t worry. I’m extremely professional, and your face does nothing to me." 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ

He stretches his legs out in front of him. "I’ve heard that before. Didn’t work out so well for the girl who said it."

"The Moon Goddess herself will freeze solid and grow icicles before that happens to me." I fold my arms. "And when you get back, take a shower. Wash your clothes too. I want every trace of my scent gone."

I expect another arrogant reply, but he only nods.

"Good. You’re not weak." He considers me for a moment. "You have a strong mind."

My eyes narrow.

Coming from anyone else, that might sound like praise. From Trey, it sounds like he has discovered a challenge and decided he’s going to enjoy it. Like telling a hunter there’s a powerful lion in the jungle and watching him become interested for all the wrong reasons.

Why do I suddenly feel like the lion?

I lower myself into the chair and drag it back into place. Adjusting it takes much longer than necessary. So does smoothing my hair, but both give me something to do besides wonder what he meant by good.

"Well, don’t get excited. Other girls might throw themselves at you, but I won’t." I pull the notebook closer. "Use that good face for our collaboration tomorrow. If you do well, I’ll reward you."

"Reward me?" His forehead creases. "Do I sit or roll over first? What am I, a dog?"

I groan. "It’s called a gift. Have you never received one?"

"A car is a gift. A good watch is a gift. Courtside tickets or a custom suit can qualify." He counts them off on his fingers. "Anything below that is a souvenir. Are you offering any of those?"

I shake my head. "Your childhood must have been unbearable."

"It was comfortable," he corrects. "And you still haven’t answered."

And just like that, every lingering suspicion that he might have been flirting with me disappears. Of course he wasn’t. Romance has no chance of surviving inside a man who hears the word gift and immediately starts negotiating for a car.

"Just do well tomorrow." I tap his shoulder. "If you do, I’ll surprise you."