Page 30
"Darian... fuck... "
He doesn't stop. He works me with his mouth, tongue flat and broad, then pointed and precise, alternating until I can't tell where one sensation ends and the next begins. The bond pulses between us, and I feel his arousal through it, his cock straining against his pants, the ache in his jaw from wanting to devour me. It feeds my own, building and building.
When I come, it crashes through me. My whole body seizes, and I cry out, loud, raw, echoing off the hallway walls. He holds me through it, mouth still on me, tongue gentling as the tremors ripple through my thighs.
He stands, and I reach for his belt with shaking hands. I get his pants open, push them down, and wrap my fingers around his cock, hard, thick, hot in my palm. He hisses, hips jerking forward.
"I need you inside me," I say. "Now."
He lifts me. My back hits the wall, my legs wrapping around his waist. The head of his cock nudges my entrance, and we both go still. His forehead presses against mine. Our breath mingles.
"Look at me," I whisper.
His eyes find mine, amber, glowing, alive.
He pushes in. Slow. So slow. Inch by inch, and the bond flares between us like a sun going nova. I feel him, not just physically, but everything. The relief, the gratitude, the raw, aching need. He bottoms out, and we stay there, joined, his cock buried deep inside me.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Arlene."
"Move," I whisper. "Slow."
He does. He pulls back, then slides home again, and the pace is excruciating, perfect. Every thrust is a promise, every retreat a question, every return an answer. The bond pulses with each movement, golden light building between us. I feel his wolf, finally at rest, curling around mine.
My nails drag down his back. His mouth finds my nipple again, sucking in time with his thrusts, and the pleasure builds again, different this time, deeper.
"I'm close," I gasp.
"I know," he murmurs against my skin. "I can feel you."
The orgasm rolls through me like a wave, long, slow, devastating. I clench around him, and he follows, his cock pulsing inside me as he comes with a groan that sounds like his chest is cracking open. The bond snaps tight, then floods warm, and I feel his relief like sunlight pouring through a window.
We stay there. His forehead against mine. Our breathing syncing.
"No more silence," he whispers.
"No more," I agree.
His arms tighten around me, and I trace the crescent moon on my collarbone with my fingertips, the one he gave me three lifetimes ago. The one that means I'm his. The one that means he's mine.
The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. The house is quiet. We're alive. We're free. We're home.
I’m on my back. The ceiling is unfamiliar, white, smooth, a light fixture I don’t recognize casting warm amber across the plaster. Darian’s weight is a solid, grounding thing against my side, his arm thrown across my stomach, his breath evening out into the slow, deep rhythm of a man who hasn’t slept in four years.
“You’re going to help around the house,” I say. My voice comes out rough, scraped clean. “Not the fun parts. The laundry. The dishes. The thing where the garbage disposal makes that sound.”
His chest vibrates against my ribs. A hum. Not quite a laugh.
“And you’re going to learn how to do Darlene’s hair.”
The hum stops. His head turns on the pillow, and I feel his eyes on the side of my face.
“Her hair,” he repeats.
“French braids. Ponytails. The thing with the little butterfly clips she likes. All of it.”
Silence. Then...
“Arlene. I can’t even… I don’t know which end of a hairbrush is the...”
