Chapter 28 Moonrise #2
“Shut up and let me do this.” I opened the box, showed him the simple silver band inside.
Nothing fancy. Just solid metal that would last and mean something.
“Michael Harrington. You're stubborn, reckless, and you have a habit of getting yourself nearly killed.
You also make me want to be better than I am.
Make me remember what it feels like to hope for things beyond just survival.
And I refuse to wait another day pretending I don't want forever with you.”
“That's the worst proposal I've ever heard,” he said, but his voice was rough and his eyes were bright.
“It's honest.”
“It's terrible.”
“Michael.” I held his gaze, let him see everything I felt. “Marry me. Please.”
He kissed me instead of answering. Just grabbed my face and kissed me in front of the entire pack with enough heat that someone wolf-whistled and Nate made a disgusted sound that was probably mandatory for sons witnessing their fathers' romantic moments.
When Michael pulled back, his smile was devastating. “Yes. Obviously yes. But we're working on your proposal skills before you try that again on anyone else.”
“Not planning to propose to anyone else.”
“Good. Because I'd have to fight them, and I'm still recovering from the last time I nearly died.”
The pack erupted with congratulations and teasing, and I let myself have this.
Let myself feel joy that wasn't complicated by Alpha responsibility or the weight of protecting everyone.
Just this: Michael's hand in mine, pack acceptance settling around us like warmth, and the promise of futures that might actually include happiness.
Evan and Nate caught my eye across the room and nodded once. Approval. Pride. The understanding that I'd just made a choice that was mine instead of the pack's, and he supported it because that's what family did.
Later, when the celebration had died down and pack house had settled into night-quiet, Michael and I retreated to my room. Our room now, I supposed. He'd been sleeping here every night since Moon Clearing, and neither of us had mentioned him going back to the Victorian.
“So,” Michael said, closing the door behind us. “Engaged. That happened.”
“Having second thoughts?”
“About you? Never.” He moved into my space, hands finding my hips with easy familiarity. “About marrying into a pack of werewolves while dealing with newly awakened moon magic and a dark witch who wants to consume the forest? Maybe a few.”
“We can postpone—”
“Don't you dare.” He kissed me, soft and sure. “I said yes. I meant it. Whatever comes next, we face it together.”
Together. The word settled in my chest like an anchor, grounding me in ways I hadn't realized I'd been drifting.
I kissed him back, slow at first, letting it linger—just lips and warmth and the taste of a promise kept.
I felt Michael sigh into me, felt his body relax as if all the tension he’d been carrying for months was melting away under my hands.
I wanted to give him that—peace, certainty, a reason to feel safe here, with me.
So I took my time, relearning every inch of him, letting my hands drift from his face down to his jaw, thumb tracing the stubble, down his neck, over the flutter of his pulse.
His hands slid under my shirt, palms warm and sure, and when I pressed forward, he didn't yield—he pulled me in. Our hips bumped, hard and eager, but I forced myself to slow, to savor. I wanted this to last. I wanted to remember every sound, every gasp, every time Michael’s breath caught in his throat when my teeth grazed his collarbone.
We moved as one, finding our way to the bed without ever breaking the kiss. His back hit the edge and I paused, watching him, reading the hunger in his eyes, the trust that let me see him raw and open and wanting.
“Clothes off,” I murmured, but even that was soft—an invitation, not a command.
He grinned, flushed and happy, and together we tugged shirts over our heads, tossed jeans aside, hands lingering, not rushing.
Every patch of skin revealed was another chance to explore, another place to kiss or bite or memorize.
I pushed him back onto the bed, but not roughly—not yet. He sprawled, beautiful and bare, scars and all, looking at me like I was something worth waiting for. I crawled over him, braced on my forearms, noses brushing, breathing the same air.
“You’re staring,” he whispered.
“Can you blame me?” I let my hand drift down his chest, feeling every hitch in his breathing, every tremor. “You’re perfect.”
He huffed, embarrassed, but didn’t look away. I leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth, then traced a path down his jaw, slow and lazy, letting my tongue and teeth follow, savoring the way his stubble scratched against my lips.
I kissed his throat, his shoulders, every scar I found—some old, some new, each one a story I already knew by heart. I wanted to worship every piece of him, so I did, mouthing at the strong lines of his chest, dragging my tongue over a nipple until he gasped and arched up into me.
“Daniel,” he breathed, hands in my hair, holding me close, not guiding, just needing contact.
“Yeah, love?” My voice was low, already rough with need.
“Don’t stop. Please, just—don’t stop touching me.”
“Not planning to.” I grinned against his skin, then continued my journey, sliding lower, nipping at the soft flesh over his ribs, tracing the hard lines of his stomach. I pressed open-mouthed kisses to every patch of skin, learning him all over again.
I let my hand drift down to his cock, not gripping, just teasing, my fingers tracing the length, feather-light. Michael shivered, thighs parting for me, and I settled between his legs, just holding him, breathing him in, letting the anticipation build.
He reached for me, fingers trembling, and I caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, then his palm, then guiding it to my cheek. He stroked my face, gentle and reverent, and something inside me broke wide open—some last piece of armor falling away.
I slid back up, covering his body with mine, our cocks brushing, both of us already leaking. I rocked against him, slow and lazy, letting friction build between our bodies, feeling his heat, his hunger, his need.
We kissed again, deeper now, tongues tangling, teeth clashing, but never rushed. Every movement was slow, deliberate, meant to stoke the fire instead of extinguish it. I rolled us over, letting him straddle me, and ran my hands down his back, squeezing his ass, urging him to grind down onto me.
Michael did—once, twice—then stilled.
His eyes dropped to where our bodies were pressed together, to my cock slick and flushed between us, and something in his expression shifted. Gone was the teasing softness. Gone was the careful reverence.
What replaced it was hunger.
Real. Undeniable. Starving.
He leaned down and kissed my chest, slow at first, then open-mouthed, messy, his tongue dragging over my skin like he couldn’t get enough. He kissed down my sternum, over my stomach, leaving wet heat in his wake, and I sucked in a sharp breath as his mouth got lower.
“Michael—” I started, but he didn’t stop.
He kissed the base of my cock through the slick mess between us, then looked up at me, eyes dark and intent, lips swollen and wet. “I need this,” he said quietly. Not a question. A truth.
Then he took me.
No hesitation. No teasing.
His mouth was hot and open and greedy, lips sliding down the length of my cock in one smooth motion that made my vision white out.
I groaned, loud and helpless, hands flying to his hair as he sank lower, taking me deeper than I expected, nose brushing my skin, throat relaxing around me like he’d been made for it.
“Fuck—Michael—”
He moaned around me, a low, satisfied sound, and bobbed his head, setting a slow, relentless rhythm. His mouth was wet—slick with spit and precum—and every pull back was just enough to make me ache before he took me deep again, swallowing me like he was starving.
I let my hands rest in his hair, not forcing, just holding on, feeling the way he worked me with intent. He wasn’t trying to be pretty. He was hungry. Desperate. His tongue dragged along the underside of my cock on every stroke, hitting that spot that made my hips jerk involuntarily.
“You’re—fuck—you’re incredible.” I breathed, chest heaving.
That only made him go harder.
He sucked me deeper, throat working, spit slipping down his chin, hand coming up to stroke what his mouth couldn’t take. His grip was firm, sure, working in time with his mouth, milking me steadily, unrelentingly.
He pulled back just long enough to drag his tongue over the head, swirling, lapping up the slick mess there, then took me back in again, deeper, wetter. I could hear it—the obscene, needy sounds of his mouth working me, the soft gag he didn’t fight, the way he relaxed and kept going anyway.
My cock was soaked. Completely coated in spit, shiny and flushed and leaking, every pull of his mouth dragging another broken sound out of my chest. I threaded my fingers through his hair, not pushing, just holding, grounding myself as my hips twitched with every slow, greedy stroke.
“Fuck, Michael,” I breathed. “You’re—fuck—look at you.”
He pulled back just enough to breathe, spit stringing from his lips to my cock, then dove back in, taking me deep again like he couldn’t help himself.
Spit ran freely now, dripping down his chin, over his throat, slicking his hand as he stroked me.
He used it shamelessly, pumping me with long, wet strokes while his mouth worked the head, tongue flicking and circling, dragging every last nerve ending to the surface.
I was shaking. Actually shaking.
“Hey,” I said, voice rough, fingers tightening in his hair. “Come here.”
He looked up at me, lips swollen and red, eyes dark and blown wide, spit still shining on his mouth. He didn’t pull away until I gently guided him up, my cock slipping free with a wet sound.