Page 72 of Paws & Order

The kitchen suddenly feels very small. The air feels thicker. The distance between us feels ridiculous. Maybe it's the cupcake.Maybe it's not. Maybe Clover didn't create anything at all. Maybe she just gave us permission to stop pretending.

Cassian sets the wrapper aside. Slowly. His gaze never leaves mine.

"Well." I swallow.

"Well." The corner of his mouth lifts.

CHAPTER 16

CASSIAN

I’ve been a cop long enough to know when I’m under the influence. Usually that means a vampire spiking my cold brew or a dryad’s idea of a good time. This is different. This is sugar and want and the careful hands of a woman I’d take a bullet for, and I’m not fighting any of it. Liza’s fingers are in my hair and her mouth is on mine. She tastes like blue frosting and something braver than either of us. Every rule I’ve spent centuries nailing into place—slow down, back off, not her—goes up like kindling. What’s left is the grip of her hands and the small sound she makes when I keep going. The only voice left in my head belongs to her, and it isn’t telling me to stop.

I scoop her off the barstool like it’s nothing. Her legs lock around my hips and her laugh breaks against my jaw. “Cassian!”

“What?” I say, setting her down just as fast, but she’s already gasping with anticipation, her cheeks flushed like she’s caught a fever.

Her lips hover near my ear, breath hot and quick. “I thought you said you’d go slow.”

“I did.” I hold her and steady both of us, but my hands have their own agenda, smoothing over the small of her back, then lower. “Just didn’t say when I’d start.”

She crashes her lips to mine, and we sway toward her bedroom in a series of stuttered steps—her hands tangling in my shirt, my arms caging her to my chest, both of us laughing like idiots every time a picture frame nearly crashes to the ground. I want to drag this out, and also tear right through it, which is exactly what happens when we reach her bed.

I lower her onto the quilt, and her hair fans out, dark and wild. If there’s a more perfect sight, I haven’t seen it. “Are you good?” I ask, and the words come out a growl.

She touches my jaw, runs her thumb over my bottom lip. “So good.” She says it simple, like a fact, but her heartbeat’s a hummingbird riot under my palms.

The room is dim, filtered porch light and the fire in the next room. I shift, letting the wolf in me rise just a fraction. Eyes go hot, orange. She sees, and her breath stutters. For a second I’m sure she’ll tell me to dial it back, that she didn’t sign up for this particular level of intensity, but she doesn’t. She pulls me in, and I can’t pull away.

If she’s afraid, she masks it behind curiosity, behind her fingers exploring the length of my arms, over my shoulders, up the back of my neck. “Your turn,” she says, voice gone syrupy-slick. She tugs at the hem of my shirt, and I let her strip it off, slow. I know what she sees: the scars, the tattoos, the marks from other lifetimes and other wounds. I have a lot of real estate, and she takes her time touring every inch, tracing lines with her fingers.

When she palms my chest, she gets a handful, and she laughs quietly. “You really are built like a truck.”

“Don’t start with the compliments unless you want to see me get cocky.” I grin, but I mean it, too. I haven’t been comfortable in my own skin since—hell, since I realized I had two layers of it. With her, I don’t feel like a monster even when I look like one.

“Why would I want anything else?” Her hands slide lower, hooking into my waistband. I catch her wrists gently.

“Liza,” I say. The wolf in me wants to rut and howl and leave marks she’ll see for days, but I wait. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

She blinks, startled, then shakes her head, dark hair making a little halo on her pillow. “I’ll tell you if I want more.”

That’s all I need. I kiss her like I’ve never done it before, like there’s a timer running down, and I have to get every possible flavor of her in one go. My hands are greedy, but careful, and I memorize the shape of her waist, the arch of her thigh. Her body curves into mine, searching for warm places, and I give her all of it.

She grabs my ass. No warning, no hesitation, just a full double-armed squeeze, and I let out a noise that’s not very chief-like at all. “Sorry,” she says, but she’s not sorry, and I can’t blame her.

“You’re lucky I’m not in uniform, Morales.” My breath hitches when she sucks a mark on my shoulder, biting the muscle there. I play it off, but I’m not remotely in control now. I want her, all of her, and the cupcake haze is just an amplifier for that bone-deep wanting.

I hook one arm under her back and lift her again—it’s easy—and settle her higher on the bed. I take my time with the details: one hand splaying over her sternum, feeling her heart slamming beneath. The thin tee she’s in is no defense, and her nipples pebble hard against the fabric. I slide it off her, dragging the cotton up slow enough for her to shiver and show me goosebumps.

She’s not wearing a bra. This is a gift. I kneel at her side and duck my head low to her chest, licking soft until she’s whimpering. Her hands flex in my hair; I moan, and she tastes it, moving restless against my thigh.

“Cass, are you—” Her voice is blurry and high.

I can’t look away from her. “I want you to say you’ll stay with me after.”

She blinks. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“It’s a request,” I say, and my voice shakes a little. “I’ll survive if it’s one night. But I want all of them.”