Page 10 of The Forgery Mate (Taken by His Alpha #6)

T he lock clicks behind me, and I flinch, my pulse spiking.

Ezra’s pheromones fill his suite, building the heat simmering under my skin.

It appears unchanged yet different, familiar furniture and textures haunted by memories I’ve spent a year trying to bury.

Through the open doorway to his private office, the painting on the far wall catches my attention, and my heart stutters.

Anatomy of a Ghost . My grandfather’s masterpiece.

His perfect forgery, stolen in the raid on his warehouse after he was arrested.

The original had gone missing decades before, and the authorities had mistaken the one they found as authentic.

It had passed through museums until it, too, had gone missing.

I move toward it without conscious thought, drawn by an invisible thread that’s been pulling at me since I first learned of its existence.

The painting hangs in the same place it did a year ago, in a place of honor on Ezra’s wall, its haunting figure both present and dissolving into a storm-dark background.

My fingers twitch at my sides, muscle memory from months spent recreating its precise brushstrokes. This painting broke my grandfather, and it appears to have become my downfall, too.

“You always loved that one,” Ezra’s voice comes from behind me, closer than I expected.

I force myself to breathe past the restriction in my lungs. This painting is why I came to Rockford Manor a year ago. Why I approached Ezra at his gallery opening, why I played the shy art professor with a specialty in forgery detection.

I studied him for weeks before putting myself in his orbit, learning his routines, his preferences, his weaknesses. I created Professor Knox to appeal to him, the intellectual Omega who could speak his language of art and beauty and value.

All to gain access to this painting.

The painting I never took.

During those thirty-one days, I could have stolen it a dozen times. Could have slipped it from its frame in the dead of night while Ezra slept. But each time the opportunity arose, I found a reason to delay. Tomorrow, I told myself. Or the next day. Always later. Never now.

Because taking it meant leaving, and leaving meant…

I swallow hard at the memory of Ezra’s arms around me, his breath warm on my neck as we lay tangled in sheets still damp from our exertions. The way he whispered, “Stay with me,” not a command but a plea that dredged up longings in me I didn’t know existed.

I couldn’t steal his prize and leave him with nothing.

So I took Aaiden’s check instead and ran.

And now here I stand, facing the painting that represents both my greatest professional failure and the moment my life spiraled beyond my control.

Ezra’s heat radiates through the back of my server’s shirt as he steps closer, and the fine hairs on my neck rise in primal awareness. His hands settle on my shoulders, straightening the hunch of my spine I adopted for Nico Duran, adding inches to my height.

I should move away. Should maintain distance. Should remember all the reasons this is dangerous.

Instead, I remain frozen as his lips brush the nape of my neck, just below where my wig meets skin. The butterfly-soft touch sends electricity racing down my spine to pool low in my hips.

“I knew you’d come back for it, eventually.” His lips skim up my throat. “Back to me.”

For one treacherous moment, I melt into his touch, my body remembering the countless nights spent in his arms, the pleasure awaiting me there. My head tilts, giving him better access in a betrayal of my conscious intentions.

Then shame floods through me, hot and choking. I’m doing it again, getting lost in the character, forgetting who I am. Who he is. What brought me here in the first place.

I pull away, putting three feet of distance between us. “Stop doing that,” I snap, hating how weak I sound. “Nothing is going to happen.”

Ezra doesn’t chase after me. Doesn’t try to close the gap I’ve created. Instead, his lips curl into that half-smile that still sends my heart racing. “You’re cute when you lie to yourself.”

A shiver rolls through me, goose bumps rising all over my body.

His fingers move to his shirt buttons, undoing them methodically. One by one, they come undone, revealing a slice of tanned skin, the defined planes of his chest. But it’s what marks his skin that captures my full attention.

Tattoos. Intricate designs that weren’t there a year ago, scrolling across his chest and down his arms in elegant, flowing patterns. I stare, dizzy with fascination.

The artwork on his skin is exquisite, a combination of baroque frames and classical imagery that winds its way across his torso. Fragments of broken statuary dance along his left pectoral, while Latin inscriptions trace the curve of his right shoulder.

When did he get them? What pain do they cover? The questions form in my mind but die on my tongue, unspoken.

His body has changed, too. He was always fit, always powerful, but there’s a new hardness to him now, a solid strength honed by hours of channeling rage into physical exertion. The boy I left has been carved away, replaced by a dangerous man.

My mouth goes dry as I trace the path of an intricate design that vanishes beneath his waistband. I swallow hard and drag my focus back to his face only to find him smirking.

“Like what you see?” he asks, satisfaction evident in every syllable. “I’ve made some changes since you ran away.”

Since you ran away. Not left. As if he understands it wasn’t the money but the fear and need for self-preservation that drove me from his side.

Ezra stalks across the floor, covering the distance between us before I can retreat further.

His hands find my waist, fingers digging into my flesh through the thin uniform with possessive intent.

He pushes me backward until I collide with the wall, my shoulder blades meeting the textured wallpaper, the solid heat of him pinning me in place.

I push his chest in a token resistance we both know lacks conviction, and my palms burn where they touch his inked skin.

“Don’t,” I whimper, the word more plea than command.

Don’t break me open.

Don’t make me vulnerable.

Don’t force me to feel again.

His lips curve as he buries his face into the crook where my shoulder meets my throat. “Still lying to yourself. Still pretending you don’t want this as much as I do.”

I turn my face away, unable to deny the truth of his words. Not with my body responding to his proximity with embarrassing eagerness.

Heat pools in my belly, spreads lower, weakening my knees and my resolve. “I don’t want this.”

“Liar.” His mouth finds the sensitive spot behind my ear, the one he discovered during our first week together, the one that has me gasping and arching in reaction. “You’ve never wanted anything more in your life, and it terrifies you.”

His teeth graze my earlobe, and rational thought fractures. My fingers on his chest curl into the hard muscles, clinging to him. He takes this surrender as an invitation, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss that’s more possession than affection.

I should fight harder. Should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. But his insistent, hungry lips melt the ice that’s sealed off my emotions far too long, and need ignites beneath his touch.

With a moan of surrender, I kiss him back.

Ezra rumbles his approval into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me like a tuning fork struck on stone.

His hands move to my hair, pulling the blond wig askew, knocking the fake glasses from my face.

Then they drop to my throat, thumb settling over my racing pulse.

At my waist, his fingers dance down my ribs, then drop to my waist to dig into my flesh hard enough to leave marks.

We become a tangle of desperate hands, each grasping and pulling at fabric with frantic urgency.

The buttons of my server’s jacket give way beneath his impatient fingers, pinging across the hardwood floor.

I push his unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders, revealing more of the intricate artwork decorating his skin.

The strange blend of familiar and unfamiliar, his body both known and unknown, sends a rush of dizzying want through me.

My uniform pants join the growing pile of discarded clothing, and I stand before him in nothing but my underwear and the ridiculous blond wig, now hanging crooked from one side of my head.

Ezra devours me with a look that leaves heat in its wake. “You’ve lost weight.”

The hint of accusation fills me with the need to apologize. I didn’t take care of myself when I left him. Didn’t protect his precious Knox.

But before I can respond, his hands circle my waist and lift me as if I weigh nothing.

Three long strides carry us past the haunting painting to the antique mahogany desk that dominates the room.

He sweeps papers and books aside with one arm, clearing a space before setting me down on the cool, polished surface.

Cold wood meets my bare thighs in a sharp contrast to the burning heat of Ezra’s hands as they roam my body. He grips me under the knees and spreads my legs to stand between them. I should feel exposed, but instead, the naked hunger that darkens his features fills me with a thrum of power.

His fingers hook in my boxers, dragging the last shred of covering from my body to leave me bare, my dick hard and leaking where it hugs my stomach, and slick coats my ass.

“I dreamed of this.” He pushes me back to lie on the desk and draws my hips to the edge. “Having you spread out before me again. Watching you come apart in my hands.”

His fingers trace patterns on my inner thighs, moving higher with taunting slowness. I bite my lip to keep from begging, unwilling to surrender the last shred of my dignity. But Ezra knows my body too well and remembers how to touch me to elicit the responses he wants.