Chapter 23 Blood Remembers What We Forget #4
I leaned forward and kissed him—slow, reassuring—then rocked my hips gently, testing the rhythm. Michael groaned, hands sliding up my back, stopping short of gripping like he didn’t want to take more than I was offering.
“Like that,” I murmured, setting a pace that was unhurried and deep, each roll of my hips deliberate. “Just feel it. Feel me.”
I rode him slowly, using the headboard for balance, letting the movement build without rushing it. The lube made everything slick and easy, the glide smooth, and the closeness—skin to skin, breath to breath—felt like something fragile I wanted to keep intact.
Michael’s hands found my hips at last, tentative, then sure. He didn’t thrust; he followed my lead, meeting me halfway, letting me control the depth and speed. Every time I sank down, he gasped softly, like the feeling surprised him anew.
“You feel good,” he said, voice rough but steady. “So good.”
I smiled, brushing my thumb along his jaw, grounding him. “You’re doing great,” I told him, honest and warm. “Just stay with me.”
I leaned back, giving him the view, letting him watch the way my body moved over his, the way we fit together. I rode him in slow circles, then deeper, then slow again, keeping it gentle, keeping it safe. His hands followed my movement, supportive, reverent, like he was afraid to break the moment.
We found a rhythm that felt like breathing—easy, shared, unforced. I bent down and kissed him again, longer this time, letting the heat build naturally while the world outside stayed quiet.
His hands tightened on my hips—not rough, not yet—but there was a shift there, a spark of intent that made my breath hitch. I felt it before I saw it, the way his body coiled beneath me, strength gathering, need sharpening.
“Daniel,” he said, low and steady, and the sound of my name in his mouth did something to me. “Come here.”
He rolled us smoothly, decisively, until my back hit the mattress and he was above me, braced on his forearms, eyes dark and focused. I sucked in a breath, the sudden change stealing the air from my lungs, and he kissed me—slow at first, then deeper, mouth warm and claiming.
“Let me,” he murmured against my lips, not asking, just grounding me there with his weight. “I want you like this.”
I nodded, fingers digging into his shoulders as he lined himself up again and pressed in deep in one long, controlled thrust. The stretch made me gasp, my head tipping back as he filled me completely, hips settling between my thighs like he belonged there.
“Fuck,” I breathed, legs wrapping around him instinctively.
He rocked into me, slow but powerful, every thrust deep and deliberate, the kind that made my toes curl and my vision blur. He stayed close, chest brushing mine, forehead pressed to my temple as he set a rhythm that was anything but gentle—but still careful, still tuned to me.
“You take me so well,” he said quietly, voice rough with it. “Every time I move, you open up for me. Like your body knows exactly what to do.”
I moaned, clutching at him, feeling every word land low and hot. He slid one hand down to hook under my thigh, lifting it higher, angling himself just right before thrusting again—harder this time, deeper.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Right there. You feel that?”
I did. I felt everything—the stretch, the heat, the way he filled me so completely it felt like there was nothing else in the world but this. I rocked up to meet him, breath stuttering, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest.
“You look incredible like this,” he went on, each word punctuated by a slow, deep thrust. “Spread open for me. Taking every inch. Letting me fuck you like I’ve been wanting to.”
My hands slid down his back, nails scraping lightly, and he shuddered, thrusts turning a little faster, a little rougher. He leaned down, kissed along my jaw, my throat, biting just enough to make me gasp.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said, almost a promise, hips snapping forward again. “But I’m not holding back either. You want this. I can feel it.”
“Yes,” I breathed, voice wrecked, legs tightening around him. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He fucked me hard now, passion driving every movement, the bed creaking beneath us, the sound of skin on skin filling the quiet room.
But even as he drove into me, there was care in it—his hands steady, his mouth finding mine between thrusts, kissing me deep and slow like he needed the connection as much as the friction.
“Stay with me,” he whispered, forehead pressed to mine. “I’ve got you.”
I nodded, lost to the rhythm, to the way he moved inside me like he knew my body by heart.
Every thrust pushed me higher, pleasure coiling tight and hot, and when he finally bit down on my shoulder and groaned my name, I knew we were both exactly where we needed to be—hard and deep and utterly, beautifully present.
Michael’s thrusts grew rougher, more urgent, the heat in the room thickening as he chased his own edge.
I clung to him, nails scraping down his back, gasping his name with every deep, perfect stroke.
He buried his face in my neck, hips snapping forward, body shaking as the pleasure built between us—hot, desperate, inevitable.
I felt him tense, a raw sound ripped from his throat, and then he pressed as deep as he could, cock pulsing, spilling inside me.
The heat of it set off something wild—mine, claimed, safe.
He groaned my name, voice breaking, hips jerking as he emptied himself, and for a moment we just held on, both of us trembling in the aftermath.
He didn’t pull out, not right away. He stayed close, panting, forehead pressed to mine, and I stroked his hair, letting my legs fall open, feeling him softening inside me, his come warm and thick where I needed it most. The moment was quiet, tender, but the hunger between us hadn’t faded.
Michael finally slid out, breathless and still hungry, and pressed kisses down my stomach, moving lower, spreading my thighs wider.
His mouth found my cock, still aching, still desperate for release.
He licked a stripe from base to tip, humming at the taste, then took me deep, lips and tongue working in slow, greedy pulls.
I shuddered, hips jerking up into his mouth, hands finding his hair, holding him close.
He sucked me with single-minded devotion, his tongue swirling over the head, down the shaft, drawing every sound out of me.
The wet heat of his mouth, the rough edge of his stubble against my thighs, the way his eyes watched me while he worked—all of it built until I was trembling, the pleasure wound tight, ready to break.
“Michael—” I warned, voice shaky, “I’m close—”
He didn’t stop. If anything, he sucked harder, letting me fuck up into his mouth, taking every desperate thrust, every broken gasp.
I came with a ragged moan, spilling across his tongue, cum streaking his lips, his cheeks, his jaw.
He swallowed what he could, let the rest drip down his chin, groaning at the taste.
I pulled him up, breathless and dizzy, and kissed him hard, tasting myself on his tongue, licking the mess from his lips, his face. We kissed until we were both laughing, sticky and sated, bodies tangled and hearts racing, the world outside gone silent.
When we finally broke apart, Michael pressed his forehead to mine, both of us grinning like fools. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then licked my cheek, playful and filthy and impossibly sweet.
“That’s one way to survive,” he whispered, voice hoarse, fond.
I kissed him again, softer this time, hands in his hair. “Yeah,” I agreed, holding him close. “The only way that matters.”
After, we lay tangled in sheets, breathing hard, and I couldn't bring myself to let go.
“I love you,” I said roughly. “In case that wasn't clear.”
“It was clear.” His hand found mine. “I love you too. Even when you're being an overprotective Alpha asshole.”
“Especially then.”
He laughed, soft and tired, and the sound made something in my chest unclench.
We stayed like that as his breathing evened out, as sleep started pulling at him. But before he could slip under, I tightened my arms around him.
“Move in with me,” I said quietly.
Michael's eyes opened, found mine in the moonlight. “What?”
“Here. The pack house. Move in with me.” The words came out rough. “I can't go through that again. Can't spend hours driving back wondering if you're going to survive. If you're here, under the same roof—”
“Daniel.” His hand found my face. “You want me to live in the pack house. With you. Where everyone can see what we are to each other.”
“They already know. The whole pack knows.” I caught his hand, pressed a kiss to his palm.
“I'm calling it not wanting to sleep alone anymore.
Not wanting to wake up and wonder where you are.
I'm calling it being so fucking terrified of losing you that I need you close enough to hear your heartbeat while I sleep.”
Something in his expression softened, and I saw the moment he understood. This wasn't about convenience. This was about the terror that came from nearly losing someone.
“What about my house?” he asked quietly. “It's still full of Anna's things—”
“Keep it. Whatever you need to do. But sleep here. Let me know you're safe.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Okay. Yeah. I'll move in.”
Relief flooded through me so strong it made my hands shake.
“But I'm keeping some tools at the old house,” he added. “And if living together means you get to be even more overprotective, we're having words.”
“I'll try to restrain myself.”
“Liar.” But he kissed me anyway, soft and slow and full of promises.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were drifting closed. “Love you,” he mumbled. “Even when you're impossible.”
“Love you too. Now sleep. I've got you.”
His breathing evened out within minutes. I watched him in the moonlight, silver patterns painting across his skin, and tried not to think about how close I'd come to losing this.
Eventually I slept, but it was restless, full of dreams where Michael bled out in my arms.
I woke to the sound of footsteps in the hallway.
Soft, careful, the kind of steps that meant someone was trying not to be heard. My wolf surged up immediately, and I slipped out of bed without waking Michael.
The hallway was dark, lit only by moonlight. And at the far end, near the stairs, I saw a figure moving.
Rafe.
He stood at the top of the stairs, still and silent, looking back toward my door. Even from this distance I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands had clenched into fists.
Our eyes met across the darkness.
For a second, I saw something in his expression that made every instinct scream danger. Rage, carefully controlled. Hatred, carefully masked. The look of someone who'd watched their plans fail and was recalculating.
Then his face smoothed into something pleasant, and he moved toward me.
“Daniel,” he said quietly. “I heard you got back. Is Michael okay?”
“He's fine.” I kept my voice neutral, but my wolf was snarling underneath. “What are you doing up?”
“Couldn't sleep.” His eyes tracked past me to my closed door, and something flickered in his expression. “I'm glad he survived. Would have been a real loss.”
The words were right. The tone was right. But something underneath felt wrong. Like concern wrapped around malice.
“Get some rest,” I said. “Evan's got perimeter covered.”
“Of course.” Rafe smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. “Just wanted to make sure everyone was safe.”
Then he was down the stairs and gone.