Page 32 of Written in Scent

There it is.

The book I need sits on the very top shelf, its spine a dull navy blue among a row of similar volumes. Of course it would be up there.

I glance around, hoping for a step stool or rolling ladder, but the aisle is empty. Nothing. Just smooth metal shelving that rises well above my head. At my modest five foot two, the top shelf might as well be on the ceiling.

Annoyance tightens in my chest again. I should’ve checked the reading list sooner. I should’ve been more organized. Now I’m wasting even more time because of my own oversight.

I weigh my options for only a moment. I could go ask the front desk for help, but that would mean more time lost and another trip back and forth. Or I could simply solve this myself.

I set my notebook down on a lower shelf and reach up, gripping the edge of the second highest ledge with both hands. My loafers find purchase on the bottom one. The metal is cool beneath my fingers as I pull myself upward, testing each step before committing my weight.

This isn’t the most graceful solution, but it’ll work. I just need to reach a little higher.

I stretch a little more on the metal shelving, loafers braced on the lower rung, fingers extended as far as they will go.

The navy blue spine of the research methods book sits just out of reach, taunting me from the top shelf like it knows exactly how much time I have already wasted today.

The metal is cool beneath my palms, slightly gritty with the faint dust that always seems to gather in these narrow aisles no matter how often the staff wipes them down. I shift my weight, determined not to let one overlooked title derail the entire paper that is due in five days.

Late afternoon light slants through the high window at the end of the row, turning the air golden. Dust motes drift through the beam in lazy spirals, catching the glow like tiny stars. The paper and cedar scent of the stacks wraps around me, the same comforting hush that always pulls me deeper into my work.

For one more second everything feels manageable. Just one more inch and I will have it.

Footsteps enter the aisle behind me.

I startle hard, the sudden sound slicing through the silence like a snapped twig. My grip slips. The world tilts, and I fall backward with nothing to catch me but the thin carpet below.

I land on my backside with a thud that knocks the air from my lungs. Startled, embarrassed, but unhurt. My notebook skitters across the floor. My skirt rides up just enough to sting my pride.

Then his scent crashes over me.

Rain on stone. Crisp bergamot. The clean, inky smell of fresh paper and careful notes.

It floods the narrow space between us, sharp and intelligent and strangely calming, the same scent that had lingered in the back of my mind since the biology lecture. My breath catches. It’s him, the cute alpha with the wire-rimmed glasses, the one who had sat a few rows ahead writing in tiny, precise handwriting while the rest of the hall gradually died inside.

He’s standing right there.

And for the first time in weeks, every meticulous plan I have ever made feels like it’s about to unravel.

My body reacts before my mind can catch up. A hushed, involuntary omega whine slips from my throat, needy and completely uninvited.

I have never made that sound before.

The noise surprises me as much as it does him, a helpless little vibration I didn’t know my body was capable of producing. Heat blooms low in my chest, sudden and bright, and my skin prickles as though every nerve has woken at once.

He drops to one knee in front of me. His hands are gentle but trembling as they hover near my shoulders, then brush lightly down my arms, checking for injury.

Up close he is even more striking than he looked from across the lecture hall. His glasses sit slightly askew from the sudden movement, and his green eyes are wide with concern behind them. His sweater stretches across his shoulders, and the faint disheveled edge to his otherwise neat appearance makes something in me soften even as the rest of me spirals.

His scent is everywhere now. The inky smell of fresh paper and bergamot. It wraps around me like cool air before a storm, sharpening every sense until the narrow aisle feels too small, too warm, too full of him.

My clinical-grade scent blockers, the strong ones Sophie recommended, suddenly feel paper thin. They shred under the weight of his nearness, and my own scent blooms without permission. Bright strawberry and peach and lemon zest flood the space between us, sweet and sunlit and impossible to hide. I can’t even muster up the embarrassment necessary for the amount of slick that’s currently pooling in my panties.

His control visibly frays. His breath catches, and a low, broken sound escapes him as he pulls me into his arms right there on the floor.

His nose presses to the curve of my neck, and he scent marks me with deliberate drags of his jaw against my skin. Heat and pleasure spreads through every place we touch.

I should push him away. I should be horrified. Instead my hands fist in the wool of his sweater, and I mark him back without thinking, rubbing my cheek along his collarbone, breathing him in like I have waited my whole life for exactly this.