Shivs #2
I grabbed her ass, lifted her onto the desk, and shoved aside the mountain of paperwork, the half-dozen bourbon samples, the corporate detritus.
She wrapped her legs around my waist and pulled me in, nails digging deep.
My hands roamed her body, mapping every new curve, every new edge the bond had carved into her.
I found the bite scars on her shoulder, kissed them, then bit down hard enough to make her shudder and gasp.
We didn’t talk. There was no need. Every thought she had, I had. Every wave of need, every flicker of fear or hunger or triumph—it all crashed through the bond and hit me like lightning. I felt her wanting to break me, wanting to surrender, wanting to win, all at once. I wanted the same.
She reached for my belt, tore it open, and had my cock in her hand before I could blink. She stroked it, slow at first, then rough, thumb circling the head. The sensation was electric; I fought the urge to come on the spot. I pushed her hand away, lined myself up, and drove in.
She took all of it, no flinch, no apology.
She leaned back on the desk, fingers clawing at the wood, head thrown back as I started to fuck her, hard and deep.
The sounds she made were half-human, half-wolf—a low growl, a sharp whine, a gasp that could have been a warning or a dare.
Every thrust was an argument, every moan a rebuttal.
The mate bond made it different. Every nerve ending was doubled, maybe tripled.
I felt her cunt contract around me, felt the pressure build in her core, and it rolled back into my own body, amplifying everything.
The world faded, and there was only the desk, the dusk, and her body locked under mine.
Then she shifted, just a little. Her eyes went from amber to gold, pupils stretched wide, and her teeth lengthened, canines sharp and perfect.
Her nails grew, black and curved, and she raked them down my back, leaving trails of fire.
I felt the change in myself, too—the world going sharper, the colors brighter, my own nails splitting and blackening as I gripped her thighs.
I fucked her harder. The desk creaked, wood protesting, but it held. She met every thrust, hips slamming up to meet me, tits bouncing, sweat pooling between her breasts. She laughed, a low, wild sound, then bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. I loved it.
I reached up, grabbed her by the throat, and squeezed—not enough to hurt, but enough to tell her she was mine.
She came, then, a flood of heat and a cry that rattled the window.
I didn’t slow down. I kept going, kept pounding her, knowing that she wanted it, that she could take it.
She came again, then again, each time louder, her body writhing and bucking.
My own orgasm hit like a freight train, sudden and brutal.
I felt my cock swell, the base thickening, and for a second, I worried it would hurt her.
But she just wrapped her legs tighter, riding the knot, milking it for every ounce.
We were locked together, fused by biology and magic and whatever the fuck Mama Celeste had brewed up for us.
We stayed like that, shaking, panting, sweat and bourbon soaking the desk. The mate bond throbbed between us, echoing every aftershock, every twitch and pulse. It was more than sex—it was a rewiring, a fusion, a promise that no matter what came next, neither of us would ever be alone.
When I finally softened enough to pull free, she kissed me—slow and deep, tasting of blood and sweat and victory. She ran her fingers through my hair, then licked her own wrist where she’d drawn blood from the bite.
“That,” she said, voice hoarse, “is how you close a deal.”
I laughed, felt the sound in my bones, and watched her pull on the ruined dress. She didn’t bother zipping it—just let it hang, the mate mark front and center, a dare to anyone who might question it.
We didn’t say anything else. We just stood, side by side, watching the last glow of the sunset burn over the rickhouses, knowing the world out there had no idea what we’d become.
I felt her pride, her hunger, her love, and I knew she felt mine.
The bond hummed like a tuning fork, vibrating through every cell.
We were still wolves. But now we were wolves with a kingdom.
We stepped back into the glow of the tasting hall like we’d never left, but everything had changed.
Carrie’s hair was a tangle of copper and static electricity, her lips swollen, her pulse still drumming along her neck.
I did my best to button my shirt and shrugged on my jacket to cover the tears.
Nobody noticed; nobody cared. In this crowd, appearances were currency, but nobody was rich enough to buy what we’d just done.
We split off, her to the main floor, me to the bar where Vin, Moab, and Canon had annexed a table and a growing collection of empty glassware.
The Royal Bastards had cleaned up for the occasion—hair slicked, shirts mostly ironed, club patches stowed under sport coats or dress vests.
Vin wore a bolo tie with a wolf’s head on the clasp.
He caught my eye and grinned, then slid a rocks glass across the bar. It stopped right in front of me.
“Figured you’d need a reload,” he said. “You look like you just went twelve rounds with a wood chipper.”
I grinned back. “You should see the other guy.”
Moab laughed, a deep, rolling sound. “You bag the Queen yet, or is she still playing hard to get?”
“Bagged, tagged, and signed in blood,” I said, and the table erupted in howls.
For a second, I watched Carrie. She was surrounded by a clutch of old-guard distributors, every one of them vying for a scrap of her attention, but she handled them like she was playing chess and everyone else was stuck on checkers.
She smiled, nodded, countered every compliment with a sharper one, her confidence absolute.
But I could see the way she kept glancing my direction, the hunger that hadn’t left her eyes since the office.
I felt it too. The mate bond was a live wire, every jolt of arousal, every flicker of thought zipping between us. Even from across the room, I knew she wanted me again—wanted me on her, in her, maybe under her if she felt like breaking the desk this time.
She raised her glass for a toast, and the room fell silent by unspoken command. “Tonight is about new partnerships,” she said, “and about respecting the old ones that built us. Here’s to bridges, not fences—and to traditions that can survive a little wildfire.”
Her eyes found me, and even in a room of two hundred, I felt like we were the only ones alive. I raised my own glass, and the room followed suit.
The night wound on. Bourbon flowed, deals were struck, and the press took enough photos to fill a year’s worth of think pieces.
Through it all, Carrie and I moved in parallel orbits, never quite touching, always aware.
Sometimes she’d graze my hand in passing, or slide a finger down the seam of my jacket as she walked by.
Each time, the jolt of the bond sent a fresh pulse of blood south, kept me on edge and hungry.
When the last of the guests had drained their glasses and the legacy houses had retreated to their black cars and secret handshakes, Carrie stood by the exit, bidding farewell to each guest with a smile and a whisper.
I drifted behind her, a silent shadow, the wolf in me perfectly content to guard the den.
She closed the door on the final guest and turned to face me, her eyes molten gold in the dying light. “Ready for round two?” she said, but the question was a formality.
“Always,” I replied. “But let’s make it a fair fight this time.”
She locked the doors, then walked to the center of the empty hall and waited for me. I followed, boots echoing on the old hardwood, and when I reached her, she didn’t waste time. She put her hand on my chest, right over the heart, and leaned in.
“If you ever betray me,” she whispered, “I’ll gut you myself.”
I laughed, knowing she meant it, and kissed her so hard it left us both dizzy.
The chandeliers dimmed, the world spun, and for one perfect second, I saw our reflection in the mirrored bar: her, the bourbon queen, and me, the bastard wolf at her side. The mate mark glowed on both of us, pulsing with life, with promise.
This was our kingdom now—bottle, bone, and blood.