Chapter Nine
Jamie groaned as his eyelids fluttered open. Softness pressed against his back. Warm. Solid. Sloane’s bed, not the chair. How had he gotten here? Memory trickled back—the wolf, the bathroom, Sloane emerging completely naked—and heat flooded Jamie’s face.
Did I…faint? Did he carry me? Am I alive? Am I dead? Is this heaven? Hell? A wolf-themed fever dream?
“There you are.” Sloane’s voice came from somewhere above him, gentle and amused. “Feeling better?”
Better? Jamie had just discovered his whatever-they-were could transform into an actual wolf. Better wasn’t exactly the word he’d use. “Peachy. Just fantastic. Living my best life discovering supernatural creatures exist.”
A soft chuckle rumbled through Sloane, and Jamie became hyperaware of several facts at once.
First, Sloane sat on the bed beside him, close enough that Jamie could feel body heat radiating off him.
Second, that heat suggested Sloane remained very much unclothed.
Third, Jamie’s traitorous body didn’t care about the whole wolf revelation when faced with that much bare skin.
“You’re safe,” Sloane murmured, and something in his tone made Jamie’s ribs ache. “I'd never hurt you. You know that, right?”
Safe. The word bounced around Jamie’s skull, colliding with images of canines and fur and those impossible bluish-gray eyes.
His thoughts scattered in twelve directions—werewolves were real, Sloane was one, had he always been one, were there others, what did this mean, why wasn’t he more terrified—while his pulse hammered against his throat.
Cedar and musk filled his lungs with each breath, Sloane’s scent wrapping around him. Familiar. Comforting, despite everything.
“I don’t know what to think.” The admission scraped out raw and honest. Jamie turned his head, finally meeting Sloane’s gaze.
Those same eyes that had watched him from a wolf's face now crinkled at the corners with concern.
“My brain’s doing that thing where it just shows an error message and plays elevator music.
But I know how I feel about you, and that hasn't changed. Which probably makes me certifiably insane.”
Something shifted in Sloane’s expression, heat flickering behind the concern. His hand settled on Jamie’s hip, thumb tracing small circles through the fabric of his jeans. “What about feeling? What are you feeling?”
The question stripped away Jamie’s defenses, leaving him raw and exposed.
He could lie, deflect with humor, pretend none of this mattered.
But Sloane’s steady gaze held him in place, patient and open and somehow still him despite everything.
Every nerve ending focused on that single point of contact, on the way Sloane’s thumb moved in lazy patterns that made thinking difficult.
“Like I want things I shouldn’t want.” Jamie’s voice came out rougher than intended. “Like you make me feel safer than I’ve ever felt, which is ridiculous considering you can literally turn into a predator.”
“Not ridiculous.” Sloane’s hand slid higher, fingertips grazing the strip of skin where Jamie’s shirt had ridden up. “You are safe with me. Always.”
The touch sent electricity skittering across Jamie’s skin. His breath hitched, body betraying him by arching into the contact. “This is probably the worst possible time to be turned on.”
“Why?” Sloane leaned closer, breath ghosting across Jamie’s ear. “Your body knows what it wants. Stop overthinking.”
Easier said than done when Jamie’s brain kept short-circuiting between “werewolves exist” and “please touch me more.” But then Sloane’s mouth found that spot just below his ear, lips barely grazing skin, and rational thought evaporated.
“Sloane—”
“Tell me to stop.” The words vibrated against Jamie’s throat. “If you need me to stop, say it.”
Stop was the last thing Jamie wanted. His fingers found Sloane’s arm, tracing the muscle there, feeling it flex under his touch. “Don’t stop.”
Permission given, Sloane’s mouth opened against Jamie’s neck, tongue tracing patterns that made Jamie’s vision blur. Teeth grazed, not quite biting, and the hint of danger sent heat pooling in Jamie’s belly.
“Been wanting this,” Sloane murmured against his skin. “Wanted you since that first night. Wanted to take you apart piece by piece until you forgot everything but my name.”
Jamie’s brain short-circuited entirely. His hips rolled without permission, seeking friction that his jeans wouldn’t provide. “That’s—you can’t just say things like—”
“I can. I will.” Sloane’s hand slipped under Jamie’s shirt, palm flat against his stomach. “Like how gorgeous you looked last night, showing off on those skates. Made me want to press you against the wall and find out what sounds you’d make.”
Heat flooded Jamie’s face, spreading down his neck and lower. “You were barely standing upright.”
“Didn’t stop me from watching you.” Sloane’s fingers traced the waistband of Jamie’s jeans, teasing but not quite crossing that boundary. “Didn’t stop me from imagining.”
Jamie turned in Sloane’s arms, needing to see him, to read his expression.
Big mistake. Sloane’s eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide, and all that exposed skin made Jamie’s mouth water.
Muscles and warmth and the faint dusting of hair across Sloane’s torso made Jamie desperately want to map that body with his fingertips.
“Kiss me,” Jamie breathed.
Sloane didn’t need to be asked twice. His mouth crashed against Jamie’s, all that careful control finally snapping.
The kiss consumed, tongue sliding against Jamie’s, teeth catching his bottom lip just hard enough to make him gasp.
Jamie’s hands found Sloane’s shoulders, nails digging in as he anchored himself against the onslaught of sensation.
“Wanted this,” Sloane growled between kisses. “Wanted you under me, riding my cock, any way I could have you.”
Jamie’s dick throbbed, trapped and aching in his jeans. His hips rolled again, seeking pressure, finding Sloane’s thigh between his legs. The friction made stars explode behind his eyelids.
“Too many clothes,” Sloane muttered, fingers already working at Jamie’s shirt buttons.
Fabric disappeared somehow, Jamie’s shirt vanishing, followed by the struggle to remove jeans without breaking contact. Sloane’s hands were everywhere—sliding down Jamie’s sides, gripping his hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows there hard enough to bruise.
Finally, finally, skin met skin. Jamie’s cock pressed against Sloane’s, both of them already leaking, and the contact made Jamie’s vision white out for a second.
“Look at you.” Sloane’s voice had gone rough, wrecked. His hand wrapped around both of their erections, the grip firm but not quite enough. “So perfect. So mine.”
Mine. The possessiveness in that single word should have scared Jamie. Instead, it made his cock twitch, pre-cum beading at the tip. “Please—”
“Please what?” Sloane’s thumb swept across the head of Jamie’s dick, spreading wetness. “Tell me what you crave.”
“You. Just—” Jamie’s hips bucked into Sloane’s grip. “Move. Please move.”
Sloane started stroking, slow and torturous, his grip tightening on the upstroke. His other hand tangled in Jamie’s hair, tugging just enough to expose his throat. “Could watch you like this for hours. Watch you fall apart. Watch you beg.”
Jamie was already falling apart, already past begging, reduced to broken sounds and desperate movements. Every stroke sent fire racing through his veins, building toward something that threatened to shatter him completely.
“That’s it,” Sloane murmured, mouth finding Jamie’s throat again. “Let go. Let me see you.”
Teeth scraped against Jamie’s pulse point, and that was it.
Release slammed into him, his back arching, his vision going white as he came across Sloane’s fingers and stomach.
Sloane worked him through it, grip gentling but never stopping, drawing out every aftershock until Jamie collapsed against him, boneless.