20. Be Wild And Free, My Dandelion #3
She closes the gap with a slow, uncertain brush of her lips against mine.
It's nothing, a ghost, but it sets every nerve ending in my body ablaze.
She pulls back, eyes wide in terror and awe, and I realize she's waiting for me to reject her, to laugh in her face, to say she's misread the moment and ruined everything.
Instead, I chase her mouth with my own, capturing her bottom lip between my teeth, biting down gentle just enough to make her gasp.
"Is that clear enough for you?" I whisper, voice ragged.
She nods, but the movement is jerky, desperate.
"River," she breathes, and my name sounds like a prayer and curse combined.
"River," she breathes, and my name sounds like a prayer and curse combined.
"Look at me." I wait until she does, those orange-gold eyes wide and dark with want she's trying so hard to fight.
"You know what that is, yes?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with more than just physical acknowledgment. This is about honesty, about stripping away the polite fictions that let us pretend this thing between us is manageable. Her lips part, but no words come out, and I make a decision that might damn us both.
I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away, to say no, to remind me about medical restrictions and professional boundaries.
But she stays still, breathing shallow, watching me like she's waiting for lightning to strike.
My hand slides from her hip to cup the back of her neck, fingers tangling in silk-soft hair.
"Let me taste," I murmur, and then I'm catching her bottom lip between my teeth.
The bite is gentle but firm, calibrated with the same precision I use to suture skin or slip a needle through silk-thin veins.
She gasps, the sound a velvet stutter that pulses hot straight to my core.
It's such a small thing—the pad of my teeth on her lower lip, a measured pull and release—but her body melts, spine unfurling, as if the whole architecture of her being was waiting for this exact pressure to make sense of itself.
For a split second, the world narrows down to nothing but the taste of her, the intoxicating sweetness that scents the air every time she exhales, the adrenaline snap of risk and trust.
I don't let myself linger. Not yet. I let up almost instantly, teeth grazing her skin as I pull back, giving the tiniest nudge with my tongue as if to apologize for the audacity.
The restraint costs more than I'd calculated.
Every cell in me riots to close the distance, to devour her mouth with a hunger I didn't know I was capable of feeling.
I want to taste her all the way down, to etch her flavor into memory so permanent it will never wash out no matter how many times I scrub my hands raw.
But this is about her, and I'm not going to fuck it up by moving too fast or letting my own need drown out the careful, delicate permission in her eyes.
I hold myself still, holding her in that liminal moment, letting the air between us crackle and reroute.
Her lips quiver, parted from the pressure, and there's a flash of white where she nipped her tongue between teeth, tasting herself.
The effect is so carnal and innocent all at once, it makes my vision smear at the edges.
She doesn't pull away. She doesn't bolt for the door or fold in on herself like I've seen her do a thousand times in the face of disappointment.
Instead, she just... stays. Sitting solid and warm on my lap, her hands slack around my neck, her pupils blown wide.
If I weren't looking directly at her, I wouldn't believe it: the way the aftershock of that tiny bite seems to erase every line of defense she spent a lifetime perfecting.
It feels like a privilege so profound I almost can't bear it.
And then another miracle—she laughs, a soft, stunned sound, and buries her face against my shoulder for a second as if to hide from the force of her own reaction.
I can feel her smile against my shirt. It makes me want to tear the whole world apart and rebuild it just for her, so she never has to second-guess this kind of happiness.
She stays curled there for a breathless eternity, then lifts her head, eyes searching mine for any sign that it was a mistake, a joke, another test she's destined to fail. There's nothing in me but raw, adoring want, and I let it show. She watches my face like she's deciphering a new language.
"Willa," I manage, and my voice is a wreck, hoarse and unguarded. I want to say something smart, something charming, but all I can do is run my thumbs along the strong line of her jaw, desperate to prove I'm not about to vanish or push her away. "You can... you can do whatever you want."
The confession seems to embolden her, like I've given her permission to breathe at sea level for the first time.
She sways forward again, hesitating a millimeter from my mouth, waiting for the world to end or to begin.
The wild, impulsive part of me wants to drag her down and never let go, but the larger part—the part that's been watching her for months, cataloguing every nuance of her smile, the way she stares down a difficult horse, the way she advocates for Luna with ferocity that would make a wolf proud—knows that if I do, it will break something vital.
So I hold perfectly still. If she wants this, if she wants me, it has to be hers to take.
And, fuck, she does.
Her hands frame my face. She leans in, eyes wide open, and presses her mouth to mine.
It's not a proper kiss—more a brush, a childlike test of the substance of desire—but it lands with the impact of a meteor.
My hands reflexively tighten on her hips, steadying her, and I meet her just enough that she feels the answer in my bones.
That yes, I want this too, more than I've ever wanted anything.
She pulls back, face flushed, breathing ragged, and lets out a shaky little laugh. "Okay," she whispers, and it's both a question and a benediction.
Her eyes open slowly, dazed and dark, and the look on her face nearly undoes me. She sways forward like she's magnetized, and I hold perfectly still, letting her choose what comes next. When she leans in, brushing her lips against mine in the softest possible kiss, my hands tighten reflexively.
"I know what it is," she whispers against my mouth, the words barely audible, painted with embarrassment and want in equal measure.
"Good girl."
The praise slips out without thought, rough and possessive, and I watch her pupils blow wide in response. My hand trails from her neck down her spine, finding bare skin where the romper dips low. She arches slightly, pressing closer, and I spread my fingers wide to touch as much as I'm allowed.
Her skin is fever-hot, silk-smooth, perfect. I trace patterns on her back, feeling the delicate bumps of her spine, the way her breathing changes with each touch.
She's trembling now, caught between want and shouldn't, and I know I need to stop before we both do something the doctor would definitely not approve of.
"Go change for me, Dandelion," I murmur, the endearment tasting right on my tongue. A name just for her, just from me. "Show me what else you picked."
She nods, looking dazed and thoroughly kissed despite our restraint. When she slides off my lap, I have to bite back a groan at the loss. She stands on unsteady legs, smoothing the romper with shaking hands, and I drink in the sight of her—flushed and wanting and mine in all the ways that matter.
"I'll just—" She gestures vaguely toward the changing room. "Be right back."
"I'll be here," I promise, and watch her disappear behind the door with what's left of my sanity.
The moment she's gone, I drop my head into my hands and breathe deep.
What the fuck am I doing?
Twenty-four hours left on her medical restrictions and I'm playing with fire, pushing boundaries that exist for her safety. But the way she responded, the trust in her eyes when she let me bite her lip, the soft confession against my mouth—it tells me everything I need to know.
This could work.
Despite our complicated dynamics, despite her trauma and our past mistakes, despite everything stacked against us— this could actually work.
She's not Sarah, not playing games or manipulation. She's just Willa, brave and broken and perfect, trying to find her way to us as surely as we're finding our way to her.
I think about Cole this morning, hands white-knuckled on the coffee mug as her scent filled the kitchen.
About Maverick prowling the perimeter like a caged wolf, needing to protect but forced to keep distance.
About Austin's too-bright smiles that don't quite hide the longing in his eyes.
We're all walking this careful line, wanting her with every fiber of our beings but knowing she needs time, space, medical care.
But after those forty-eight hours are up? After her body adjusts and she's cleared for... everything?
The thought makes my cock throb with renewed interest, and I adjust myself with a grimace.
I'm thirty years old, not some untried boy, but she makes me feel wild and young and reckless. Makes me want to claim and provide and protect in ways I thought I'd learned to control.
The changing room door opens, and I look up to find her in something new—a sundress this time, pale blue like morning sky.
She looks uncertain, younger, and I realize with a start that she's probably never had anyone buy her clothes just because.
Never had someone want to spoil her for the sheer joy of watching her smile.
"Beautiful," I tell her, meaning it with every cell in my body. "We'll take it all."
Her smile is worth every penny, worth the ache in my body, worth the careful control I'll need to maintain for twenty-four more hours. Because after that? After that, we'll show her exactly what it means to be cherished by a pack that knows how to love an Omega right.
The storm is coming—I can feel it building between all of us, electric and inevitable.
But for now, I watch her spin in that sundress, cowboy boots clicking on the boutique floor, and let myself imagine all the ways we'll weather it together.