Page 69 of Pocket Wife

“No. That one had teeth.” Her thumb traces the faint light along my wrist. The bond stirs—steadier than the storm in the shelter, deeper, more dangerous in its quiet certainty.

She places her free hand against my chest. “I am afraid of wanting you after tomorrow. If we win, everything changes. If we lose, everything breaks. What if we are only possible inside this crisis?”

“I have considered that possibility,” I say. “I rejected it. You argued with me before danger sharpened. You irritated me before Helix turned violent. I admired you before the bond fully woke. Crisis revealed the shape of what already existed. It did not create it.”

Lucy blinks hard. I lift her ink-stained hand and press my mouth to her knuckles.

“I choose you before the hearing. I choose you after it—win or lose. Not because the bond demands it. Because I do.”

The first tear escapes. She wipes it away impatiently. “I hate crying before legal proceedings.”

“I will omit it from the official record.”

“That might be the most romantic thing you have ever said.”

“I can do better.”

“Then do.”

She pulls me down by the front of my tunic.

The kiss ignites instantly—raw, desperate, born of exhaustion and fear and the need to feel something solid. I meet her with equal hunger, hands sliding to her waist. Lucy locks the door herself, then pushes papers aside on the teacher’s desk.

I lift her onto the edge of it with careful strength, mindful of her lingering bruises. She catches my wrist.

“I am not fragile.”

“You are injured and I will not add to it.”

“I am both injured and impatient.”

I smile against her mouth. “A difficult combination.”

Her laugh turns into another deep kiss. Our hands move urgently. My tunic and coat drop to the floor. Her jacket and shirt follow. I unfasten her trousers and slide them down her legs along with her undergarments, exposing warm brown skin marked by bruises and years of sun. She frees me from the last of my clothing, her hand wrapping around my hard, aching cock and stroking firmly.

I groan. The bioluminescent patterns across my chest and arms glow brighter. I step between her spread thighs, kissing her deeply while my fingers find her already wet and ready. I circle her clit, then slide two fingers inside her, curling them until she moans into my mouth and rocks against my hand.

“Rethan… I need more.”

I position myself at her entrance, thick and heavy. “Fix your eyes on me.”

Our eyes lock.

“I am yours,” she whispers fiercely. “And you are mine. Not the Authority’s. Not fear’s. Mine.”

“Yours,” I answer, voice rough. “Completely.”

I push inside her in one slow, deep thrust. Lucy gasps, her nails biting into my shoulders as I stretch and fill her. The bond surges, pleasure echoing between us until the line between our bodies blurs. I hold still for a heartbeat, then begin to move—long, powerful strokes that grow faster as need overtakes restraint.

The old desk creaks beneath us. Lucy wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper. I grip her hips, driving into her with urgent rhythm, careful not to jar her injuries but unable to hold back completely. Each thrust draws soft, desperate sounds from her throat that send fire down my spine.

The glowing patterns on my skin illuminate her face—flushed, beautiful, alive. I lean down to kiss her breasts, sucking one nipple into my mouth while thrusting harder. Lucy arches, crying out, her inner walls tightening around me.

“More,” she gasps. “Don’t stop.”

I give her everything, pounding deep and steady, the bond amplifying every sensation until pleasure borders on overwhelming. Her climax builds rapidly—I feel it through the bond, the coiling tension, the trembling in her thighs.

When it breaks, she comes hard around me, clenching rhythmically, a sharp cry escaping her lips. The intensity pulls me over the edge with her. I thrust deep one final time and spill inside her, groaning her name as powerful waves of release surge through us both, feeding back and forth through the bond until we’re both shaking.