Page 22 of The Forgery Mate (Taken by His Alpha #6)

“ W ait.” I hold up a hand, thoughts scrambling. “Give me a second to process?—”

Before I can complete the request, Ezra’s mouth captures mine with pure, raw possession that demands surrender with each sweep and retreat of his tongue. His hands frame my face, fingers sliding into Knox’s meticulously styled hair, destroying the persona with each touch.

And my body melts into his embrace like wax left too near a flame. I grip his lapels, pulling him closer. A needy sound escapes my throat, full of surrender, and his lips curve in satisfaction.

The taste of him floods my senses, making my head spin faster than any champagne ever could. His pheromones fill my lungs, his body molding to mine, all hard ridges and demand, sweeping away all reason with his desire, devouring me whole.

When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, with only a thin ring of gold-flecked hazel visible. He takes off my glasses, folding the stems and tucking them into my pocket.

“There you are,” he murmurs, echoing words from long ago, from another bathroom when he’d stripped away a different one of my masks.

Before I can respond, before I can rebuild the flimsiest of defenses, his hands drop to my waist, and the world tilts as he lifts me in one smooth motion.

My stomach lurches as I find myself draped over his shoulder, his arm a steel band across the back of my thighs. Blood rushes to my head, disorienting me further as he spins toward the door.

Disbelief sweeps through me at this turn of events. “Put me down!”

Ezra spanks my ass in reprimand, the sting traveling through layers of expensive fabric straight to my dick. “Keep it down. There are still people in the viewing room.”

I squirm in his hold, dignity forgotten as I try to free myself. My hands scramble on his back, searching for purchase on the fine wool of his suit. “This is absurd— You can’t— I am a thirty-year-old adult— Where are you taking me?”

He unlocks the bathroom door with his free hand, the click loud in the enclosed space. The gallery beyond is dimmer now, the exhibit lighting focused on the art rather than the thinning crowd of patrons.

Ezra moves with purpose through a side door marked “Private,” into corridors I hadn’t noticed before.

“We’re going to my apartment upstairs.” He palms my ass, fingers sliding over my crease. “Stuffy Knox in his three-piece disguise has been driving me insane all night.”

The knowledge that we’re heading to his private space sends a dual spike of panic and anticipation through me.

“I haven’t agreed to anything,” I protest, kicking within his hold, and the tips of my shoes connect with his muscular thigh.

His grip tightens in response, fingers digging into the sensitive spot where leg meets ass.

“Haven’t you?” The question carries no real inquiry. “You came tonight. You opened the invitation. You put on your best professor costume and walked right in, knowing I’d be waiting.”

We turn another corner, moving deeper into the building’s private areas. The corridors here are narrower, the lighting softer, designed for staff rather than patrons. Each step jostles me on his shoulder, a constant reminder of his strength and my precarious position.

“That was—” I struggle to find an explanation where I don’t sound pathetic. “Professional curiosity. About the exhibition.”

His laugh vibrates through his body into mine. “Of course. Just like professional curiosity led Knox to hunt me down a year ago. And it was professional curiosity that landed you in my bed.”

Heat burns in my cheeks at the reminder of how easy it was for him to see through my careful persona, even then. “You don’t have the right to?—”

“I have every right.” The amusement drains away, leaving behind steel wrapped in velvet. “You gave it to me the moment you gave me your real name. The moment you let me see the real you.”

We reach an elevator tucked at the end of a hallway, its brushed metal doors reflecting our distorted images with him standing tall and confident, and me draped over his shoulder, his captured prey.

He shifts me to press the call button, and I renew my struggles, twisting in his hold. “This is kidnapping. There are at least two dozen witnesses who saw us together.”

“And every one of them saw Professor Knox being friendly with the gallery owner.” He steps into the elevator when the doors slide open, turning so I can see our reflection in the mirrored wall.

“They saw what you wanted them to see. It’s your own fault for playing your role so well until we were alone. ”

The doors close with a soft hiss, sealing us into the small space. He selects the button for the top floor, and our ascent begins.

When his hand slips between my thighs, grazing my balls, my breath catches. “Stop that. I’m not going to sleep with you again.”

“It’s cute when you pretend.” His fingers run up the seam of Knox’s tailored trousers, massaging my slick entrance through the expensive material. “Almost as cute as when you run.”

His words tighten around me, stronger than the arm restraining my legs. Because the worst part, which I can’t admit even to myself, is that running was never about escaping him.

It was about escaping how much I wanted to stay.

The elevator doors slide open to reveal Ezra’s apartment, a vast, open space where industrial meets luxury in a marriage of concrete, steel, and curated comfort.

The walls, painted a deep charcoal, serve as backdrops for artwork that draws the eye at every turn.

Some pieces I recognize from our time together, while others are new acquisitions acquired in the year we spent apart.

Ezra steps into the loft, still carrying me over his shoulder like a sack of valuable contraband. My glasses slip out of my pocket, and I grab them before they can fall, shoving them back on my face.

The motion draws a chuckle from him. “Still so careful, even now.”

He strides past the kitchen area with its gleaming surfaces and the living space with its low-slung leather furniture.

He doesn’t stop until we reach the bedroom portion of the loft, separated from the main area by a half wall of frosted glass. A massive platform bed dominates the space, wrapped in soft- as-sin charcoal sheets and a headboard that stretches almost to the ceiling.

Without ceremony, Ezra tips me forward, and I tumble onto the mattress with an undignified yelp.

I scramble backward toward the headboard, shoes rucking up the bedding before my legs give out. Knox’s crisply ironed suit is now rumpled, the jacket twisted, the shirt half-untucked, and the knotted tie askew.

Ezra follows me onto the bed, prowling across its soft surface with the fluid grace of a predator who knows his prey has nowhere left to run. His knees bracket my thighs as he settles his weight over me. In the dim light from the bedside lamp, his eyes gleam with dangerous amusement.

“You know what I love about Knox?” He traces the starched edge of my collar, following the line to where it meets my tie, the feather-light touch sending electricity racing across my skin. “He’s so buttoned-up. Makes undressing him all the more fun.”

I try to reclaim my dignity, to remember I’m not some blushing ingénue, despite the heat crawling up my neck. “Stop. Don’t turn this into a joke.”

Ezra leans closer, licking the shell of my ear. “Are you into roleplay?”

A sound escapes me, half groan, half incredulous laugh. “What are you talking about?”

His weight shifts, and he plucks the glasses from my nose, slipping them on. In a heartbeat, his expression transforms into wide-eyed innocence so at odds with his natural intensity that it catches me off guard.

“Professor,” he whispers in a higher pitch made breathy with false desperation, “if I fail your class, I’ll lose my scholarship. Isn’t there anything I can do to improve my grade?”

Mortification floods me, hot and immediate, and I bury my face in my hands. “I’m already ashamed of myself. Stop making it worse.”

The mattress dips as Ezra shifts his weight, easing back so he’s not looming over me. The absence of his body heat leaves me chilled, and I lower my hands to find him sitting back on his heels, still straddling my legs but giving me space to breathe.

He takes the glasses off, tossing them aside as he studies me. “Does the age difference really bother you that much?”

Unable to bear his scrutiny, I turn my head away. My fingers find a loose thread on the duvet cover, worrying at it. “I thought you were older.”

Ezra’s hand rises to touch the silver streak in his hair, and his lips curve in a rueful smile. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

It had been three weeks into my stay at Rockford Manor when he revealed that he had graduated from college when he was sixteen. But he had gotten the silver in his hair when he was thirteen, when he was in a car accident with his older cousin, Sebastian.

I remember him telling me about it during one of our rare nights of true honesty. The doctors had warned his family he might not walk again, and the trauma had leached pigment from that patch of his hair. The experience had taught him to seize what he wanted without hesitation.

“If I had realized how young you were, I wouldn’t have…”

I trail off, because wouldn’t I have? The plan had never been to stay with Ezra. It was intended as a one-night stand, but I kept adding one more night.

“I was twenty-nine, and you were twenty-two.” I sigh. “I never should have touched you.”

“And now I’m twenty-three, and you’re thirty. The scandal.” Sarcasm drips from the words. “Shall I alert the media?”

“It’s not just the number.” My fingers abandon the thread before I’m tempted to break it and unravel the duvet cover. “It’s what those years represent. We’re in different places in our lives and want different things.”

“And what do I want, Ren?” His use of my real name sends a shudder of awareness through me. “Since you’ve appointed yourself as the expert on my desires.”