9. Caroline #2
“Fuck, Caroline,” he rasps. His dominance surges, that instinctive Alpha control taking over. He cups my pussy, fingers pressing into me. “You’re so fucking slick. Dripping for me already.”
The words hit like a spark to dry tinder. I moan around the cotton, my hips bucking into his hand. He rubs me there, slow circles over my clit that make my thighs quake. The pressure builds, heat coiling tight in my belly.
“Yes,” I gasp when he finally peels the boxers down.
His cock springs free, thick and heavy, the head flushed dark and glistening.
Veins wrap around the shaft, leading to a base that’s already swelling with his knot.
I wrap my hand around it, stroking from root to tip, feeling it twitch in my grip.
He’s huge, the kind that promises to stretch me to my limits.
We move in a frenzy, clothes flying off. My shirt goes first, leaving me bare and exposed. He sheds the rest, his well-defined body coming into full view—broad shoulders tapering to a chiseled chest, abs rippling with every breath, thighs powerful and corded.
I reach for him again, but he bats my hand away gently, fist pumping his length as he stares down at me.
We can’t think. Not about Amara, not about consequences. Only this—the raw need consuming us both.
Damon climbs back over me, his cock nudging my entrance. He rubs the head along my folds, coating himself in my wetness, teasing my clit with each pass.
I whimper, legs spreading wider. “Please.”
He pushes in then, inch by inch, stretching me open. The burn is exquisite, my walls clenching around his thickness. He bottoms out with a groan, hips flush against mine.
“So tight,” he mutters, starting to thrust, slow at first, then harder, the bed creaking under us.
Every slide in and out sends jolts of pleasure through me, his cock hitting spots that make stars burst behind my eyelids. I claw at his back, nails digging into muscle, urging him deeper. He fucks me with abandon, skin slapping against skin, the room filled with our gasps and moans.
But he pulls out suddenly, leaving me empty and whining. Before I can protest, he’s sliding down my body, mouth latching onto my pussy. His tongue dives in, lapping at my folds, tasting our combined arousal. A part of me screams that this is Damon’s mouth on me.
Guilt flickers, but it’s smothered when he cups my breast, thumb flicking my nipple in time with his licks.
He spits on my clit, the warm wetness mixing with my slick, then sucks it between his lips. I cry out, hips grinding against his face as he devours me, tongue flicking relentlessly. The pressure builds fast, coiling tighter.
When he stands, his cock is slick with my juices, smearing across his stomach as it bobs. His body gleams with sweat, every muscle defined and tense, gray eyes locked on mine.
“I want you,” he says, voice rough with need.
“Yes,” I breathe, reaching for him.
He thrusts back in, harder this time, setting a punishing rhythm. His mouth finds my neck, sucking hard enough to leave faint bite marks, tongue soothing the sting. I wrap my legs around him, meeting every snap of his hips.
“Gonna come on your stomach,” he warns between licks, teeth grazing my skin. But his thrusts grow erratic, deeper, the base of his cock swelling.
“More,” I beg, lost in the haze. “Damon, please, more.”
“Oh fuck,” he groans, burying himself to the hilt. “I’m sorry. I can’t—”
His knot catches, locking us together as he comes, hot spurts filling me. Regret flashes in his eyes, but he doesn’t stop, grinding against me, rubbing that swollen knot right where I need it. I shatter around him, waves of pleasure crashing through me, my body shivering with aftershocks.
He rolls us to the side, still joined, his arms pulling me close. I meet his gaze, those stormy eyes soft now, filled with unspoken apologies. I want to stay awake, to beg for more, to chase this feeling forever. But exhaustion tugs at me, the heat finally ebbing.
Damon kisses me softly. First my lips, then my cheeks, my nose… tender presses that make my heart ache. My eyes drift shut, sleep claiming me as his warmth surrounds me.
His tongue is rough against my cheek.
I make a sound that barely qualifies as a noise and turn my face away, burrowing instinctively into the pillow, until the licking persists with stubborn determination. Something sharp and familiar presses against my skin, followed by a low, insistent chirrup.
I crack one eye open.
Yellow-green eyes stare back at me, unblinking and judgmental.
“Oh,” I croak. “It’s you.”
Thistle’s whiskers twitch. He sits on my chest like he owns the place, tail wrapped neatly around his paws, black fur glossy in the early light filtering through the curtains. He leans forward and licks my cheek again, slower this time, like he’s checking that I’m real.
“Okay,” I murmur. “I’m awake.”
My voice sounds different. Raw, yes, but not wrecked. My head doesn’t feel like it’s full of cotton. My skin isn’t screaming anymore. The buzzing that had lived under my bones for what felt like forever is gone.
I push myself up on my elbows.
The movement sends a long, aching stretch through my body, one that pulls a breath out of me whether I want it or not.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Everything hurts.
Not the panicked pain from before. This is deeper.
Muscle-deep. A slow, blooming soreness that reminds me very clearly of what happened, even before my memory fully catches up.
My thighs ache. My back protests. There’s a dull throb between my hips that makes me press my lips together and breathe through it.
Thistle hops off the bed and lands without a sound, circling once before settling near my feet. I swing my legs over the side of the mattress and pause.
The sheets are clean.
That registers immediately.
They’re pale, soft, faintly warm from my body, tucked neatly beneath the mattress corners. My old sheets, the ones I remember clawing at, are gone. The room smells like soap and something else I recognize too well now. Cedarwood. Smoke. A trace of heat that makes my stomach dip.
I look down at myself.
Clean. No sweat. No sticky residue. My skin feels washed, lotioned even. My hair is pulled up into a loose bun at the nape of my neck, secured with my favorite elastic. The one I always keep in my bathroom to hold my hair up when I’m showering.
I lift a hand and touch it, fingers shaking just a little.
“How fast asleep was I?” I mutter.
There’s no one in the room. No weight behind me. No broad warmth pressed against my back. Just morning light and the soft hum of the house settling.
“Damon?” I call.
No one answers.
I stand slowly, bracing myself against the edge of the bed when my knees protest. My body feels like it’s been wrung out and put back together by someone who knew exactly what they were doing. There’s an afterglow humming through me, calmer now, muted, but unmistakable.
The heat is gone.
That realization lands all at once.
I straighten, breathing in carefully, waiting for that familiar pull, that needy slide under my skin.
Nothing.
“That’s… new,” I whisper.
I cross the room and open my closet, pulling out an oversized T-shirt and sliding it over my head. The fabric brushes my sore skin and makes me wince.
As I turn back toward the bed, something catches my eye.
On the dresser, placed with deliberate care, sits a bottle of water. Next to it is a folded piece of paper.
My chest tightens.
I walk over and pick them up, lowering myself carefully onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beneath my weight. I brace my hand against the frame and unfold the note.
The handwriting is neat.
Caroline,
I’m sorry. For everything. For yesterday being what it was instead of what it should have been. I didn’t want you to wake up alone without knowing.
You’re safe. You’re okay. I’m clean. I always get tested, so you don’t have to worry about any of that. I’m clean, I promise. Council-verified. I’ll show you the results if you need that.
The heat passed sometime early morning. You slept through it.
I wouldn’t have stayed otherwise.
There’s a calming blend in the kitchen, already measured. Drink it before noon. It’ll help settle the aftereffects.
I’ve left you some cash too in case you need something else.
If you need anything, call me.
—D
I stare at the paper, my jaw tight.
Then I flip it over.
A hundred-dollar bill is taped neatly to the back.
I bark out a laugh that startles Thistle.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I say aloud.
My voice cracks halfway through, anger and disbelief tangling together until I’m not sure which one is winning.
“What the actual fuck is this?”
I drop the note onto the bed and scrub a hand over my face. My palm drags down my cheeks, my mouth, my chin. My skin still feels warm beneath my touch, still remembers the weight of his hands, the sound of his breathing, the way my name sounded in his mouth.
Money.
I glance back at the bill, then at the note.
He cleaned my room. He washed my sheets.
He bathed me. Put my hair up. Stayed until the worst passed.
And then he left me cash like this was some kind of transaction.
My chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with my body.
“I didn’t ask for that,” I whisper.
Thistle hops onto the bed and pads over, nudging the note with his nose. He looks up at me, ears twitching.
“I know,” I tell him. “I know.”
I stand again, moving more carefully now, and head toward the kitchen. The house feels different in the daylight. Familiar, but altered, like something important happened here and the walls are still adjusting.
On the counter, just like the note said, there’s a small jar with a handwritten label.
Aftercare Blend. Drink slowly.
There’s nothing else on the note. Where did he even get this? June? Does he have a supplier of specialized teas? Can he make it any clearer just how much he regrets what he did?
That’s what I get for sleeping with Damon fucking Wilder.