Chapter 8 Felix
Felix
I’m not trying to flirt.
Not really.
But the bag of flour on the top shelf is a trap. I swear it. Ben tells me to grab it while he wipes down the espresso machine, and the second I stretch up on my toes, fingers barely grazing the edge, it tips.
It doesn’t just fall. It erupts. A cloud of white explodes across my chest and shoulders, dusting my face, my hair, my soul.
Ben looks up. Freezes.
Then, laughs. Actually laughs.
It’s low and rare and totally unfair. His eyes crinkle at the edges. His mouth twitches. And for a second, he looks younger. Lighter.
“You good?” he asks, like he didn’t just witness a full sack-of-flour detonation.
“I am a vision,” I say proudly, brushing at my shirt. “A baking tragedy.”
He grabs a towel and tosses it at me.
“Take care of yourself, Snow Angel.”
“Oh, we’re doing nicknames now?”
I grin. He doesn’t say no.
We clean up. Sort of.
There’s still flour in my hair. I pretend not to notice. Mostly because I’m enjoying the way Ben keeps looking at it, like it’s bothering him. Like he wants to fix it.
My wolf preens under the attention. It’s practically wagging its tail, whispering look, he sees us. He wants to touch.
Finally, he gives in.
He steps in close, hand lifting, fingers brushing through the mess like he’s sculpting something delicate. His touch is careful. Light.
But it burns.
My wolf goes still, ears pinned forward. Hungry. Hopeful.
I stop breathing.
So does he.
And when his eyes meet mine, the whole room holds still.
The café is quiet. The lights are soft. We’re close enough to feel the shift in the air.
My wolf nudges at me: closer. closer. now.
I lean in. Just a little.
Ben closes the gap.
The kiss starts slow.
Cautious.
Like we’re both waiting for the other to flinch.
But neither of us does.
His lips are warm. A bit stiff at first, then softer. Hungrier. One hand finds my jaw, the other my hip, pulling me in like he’s waited months to touch me and just realized he’s allowed.
I press into him, fingers curling in the front of his shirt, and he groans. Low. Rough.
The sound shoots straight through me, and my wolf howls.
Mine.
We stumble toward the back room, mouths still locked. I bump into a rack of coffee filters and laugh into his mouth. He shuts me up by backing me against the wall and kissing me harder, messy now. Filthy with want.
He presses his thigh between mine, and I grind down instinctively. He curses.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasps.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper back.
And then we stop talking.
Clothes go halfway off, hoodie yanked over my head, his shirt shoved up. My skin lights up everywhere he touches. Chest, waist, hip. His hands are greedy. Like he’s been starving for this.
Maybe he has.
I sure as hell have.
He pushes my pants down, drags his mouth over my throat, and I nearly come just from that. My knees go soft. I grip the edge of a shelf like it’ll save me.
Then he drops to his knees.
And my brain flatlines.
His hands are steady, confident… experienced. More than that, it's like he knows exactly what I need and isn’t asking permission.
My wolf’s practically vibrating with need, tail-up submissive, finally getting what it’s been begging for.
I gasp, breath catching hard in my chest as his mouth finds my cock, hot and open, lips slick and greedy. Gods. His tongue moves like he’s trying to memorize every twitch, every shudder. He doesn’t rush, just takes his time, pulling broken sounds out of me like he’s been aching to hear them.
My hands go numb from how hard I’m gripping the shelf. My hips roll, helpless, grinding against the obscene heat of his mouth. Every drag of his tongue is another unraveling, every filthy word he mutters into my skin another tug on a thread that’s ready to snap.
Then his hands are back on my hips, tight, commanding. He stands without a word and turns me, manhandling me into position. My wolf arches with a sharp jolt of instinct, spine bending in perfect submission as I brace against the shelves and push my ass back toward him.
The sound of a zipper makes my breath stutter.
A low curse, hissed against the nape of my neck, and the words, "Christ, Felix."
And then he spits into his palm, rough and fast, slicking himself up with a low groan. It’s not perfect, not even close, but the way his chest is heaving behind me, the way his hands are shaking… I know he needs this just as bad as I do.
His fingers find me next, just one at first, slipping between my cheeks, circling my entrance. I hiss at the contact, the jolt of heat, the way my whole body clenches around nothing. Then he pushes in, just enough to stretch me open.
I whimper, head dropping forward, hips tilting back. "God, yes—Ben—"
“Shh,” he murmurs, voice frayed. “Just one more.”
He adds a second finger, thick and slick, scissoring me open with slow, steady pressure. It burns, just a little, but it’s the kind of burn that makes my toes curl. I push back against him, needy, panting, eyes screwed shut.
My wolf howls low inside me, tail up, spine arched, practically clawing at the edges of my skin in wild, urgent approval. Every instinct screams yes! take him, let him in. this is what we were made for. It paces and whines, delirious with anticipation, desperate to be filled, to be claimed.
“You sure?” he rasps, mouth at my shoulder, even as I nod. “You tell me if it hurts. I mean it.”
“It won’t,” I grind out, almost feral with want. “I fucking want it, want you. Please.”
That does it.
One hand grips my hip like he’s afraid I’ll vanish, the other guiding himself lower, to where I’m already slick and pulsing around nothing, begging to be filled.
Then he’s there, thick and hot and so fucking real, pressing in slow, deep, steady.
I see stars. My entire body tightens around him, overwhelmed, stretched wide and burning in the best goddamn way.
I cry out, forehead knocking into the shelf, one hand scrabbling for purchase as he keeps going, inch by inch, anchoring me with one big hand on my lower back, the other bruising into my hip like he’s staking a claim.
Like I’m his.
Like I always have been.
He doesn’t stop until we’re flush, until he's fully seated and I'm shaking.
"Please, Ben, move," I beg.
The storeroom goes quiet… except for the slap of skin, the rustle of clothes, the wrecked noises breaking free from my throat with every thrust. He starts slow, but it doesn’t stay that way. It never could. Not with the way we fit. Not with the way I melt for him.
He fucks me like he means it.
Like he’s wanted to do this for years and he’s making up for every second lost.
My wolf howls with every grind of his hips.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
And I believe it.
He holds me there with one hand firm on my hip, the other sliding up my spine like he owns every inch. Every part of me arches into him, strung tight and trembling, gasping for breath with every thrust.
My wolf’s gone quiet now. Not from fear. Never fear.
From awe.
Reverent silence as it surrenders, finally, irrevocably.
Ben leans in close, chest hot and slick against my back, breath ragged in my ear.
“Fuck,” he growls, voice low and ruined. “You take me so good. So fucking good.”
I whimper, a raw, high sound I don’t recognize, fingers clawing uselessly at the shelf. Everything blurs… heat and pressure and him. Just him.
Then his hand slides around. Wraps around me.
I shatter.
My whole body locks up, the heat crashing down in a wave that tears the breath from my lungs and makes the world go white around the edges. I come with a cry that’s half-wolf, half-human, and all his.
Behind me, Ben groans deep and guttural, like the sound's been trapped in his chest for hours. He snaps his hips forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he follows me over the edge, spilling with a broken moan against my shoulder, jaw clenched tight around my name.
We stay like that, locked together, skin sticking, chests heaving, bodies trembling in the thick, still heat of the storeroom. My knees finally give, but he catches me without a word, wrapping his arms around my waist like I’m something precious.
And fuck… maybe I am.
My legs feel like jelly, but Ben doesn’t let me fall. He just holds me there, strong and steady, one arm around my waist, the other braced on the shelf like he’s the only thing keeping the world from spinning off its axis.
Honestly? He kind of is.
My wolf is a puddle… sleepy, sated, humming with warmth. I don’t think it’s ever been this quiet. Or this happy. It’s curled up inside me like it’s found the warmest patch of sunlight and doesn’t ever want to move again.
Ben presses a soft kiss to the back of my neck. It’s gentler than anything that came before, and somehow that’s what undoes me. I blink fast, throat tight, and lean back into him like I’m afraid he’ll disappear if I don’t stay touching.
Eventually, he pulls back just enough to help me turn around. My knees wobble, and I let out a breathy laugh. “Wow. Okay. You’re gonna have to give me, like… five years to recover.”
Ben huffs a laugh through his nose and tucks my hair behind my ear. “Take your time,” he says, voice still low and rough around the edges. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And damn. That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.
We clean up slowly with paper towels, water bottles, the awkward shuffle of trying to look less debauched than we clearly are. I drag my pants back on, cheeks hot, but Ben just watches me with that quiet intensity that makes my stomach flip.
But it’s not cold. Not distant. It’s quiet like presence, not silence. Like he’s still in it. Still with me.
Once we're clean, I break the silence first, because of course I do. “So… uh. That happened.”
Ben scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, eyes flicking toward me. “Yeah. It did.”
There’s a beat. His jaw flexes. “I feel like I should say something about boundaries. Since we work together.”
The words sting a little, but I nod anyway. “Okay.”
I don’t push. Don’t ask for more than he can give.
He looks at me again, and this time, there’s no hesitation. Just warmth. Quiet honesty.
“But that was… really fucking nice.”
My chest tightens, breath hitching. “Yeah,” I whisper. “It was.”
My wolf hums its agreement—content, full, still thrumming with that quiet, possessive warmth.
Mine. Still mine.
Ben steps closer, slow and sure, and pulls me in by the waistband of my jeans. He rests his forehead against mine, breath warm between us.
We’re quiet for a beat.
I curl into him like I was made for it.
I don’t know what this means yet. Don’t know what he’s going to say tomorrow. But right now, here, in the warmth and the dark and the lingering scent of coffee and sex… I think maybe this time…
Maybe this is it.