Chapter 42 - Dove
Need. Yeah, I fucking need him. For the past week, he’s given me the greatest head of my life, leaving me wrecked and boneless more times than I can count.
I intend to ruin Wolfson Strakh the way he’s ruined me.
As I hum and suck and draw him into the back of my throat, I keep my fingers moving on his scrotum, teasing and exploring.
Without taking my eyes off him, I read every twitch, held breath, and flicker of emotion as I shift my hand lower to caress the skin behind his ball sack.
His breath quickens, and his thighs quiver violently.
I lift my head. “Should I stop?”
“Don’t you dare.” He rocks his hips, restless and panting.
“You’ll tell me if it’s too much.”
“Wicked Dove.” He groans. Not a warning. Definitely a plea.
I suck him back into my mouth and slide my finger farther back, testing with soft pressure and gentle touches. His entire body shudders.
“More.” His head falls back, mouth parted, his voice breaking on a growl that sends heat racing through me. “Don’t stop.”
The desperation in his expression is all the permission I need, but I still watch him, his eyes, his breath, the flux of tension rolling through his limbs. No fear. No recoil. Just hunger. Feral, unfiltered animal lust.
I follow his voice, his body, and the way he opens under my touch. I move with purpose now, letting my mouth and the hum in my throat build frenetic ripples through his body as my wet fingers stimulate the sensitive spot behind his sack.
When I reach the place where he was abused, I lightly circle the tight knot of muscle, a delicate touch. An offer. A question.
He clenches beneath me, shaking, breathless, undone in a way I’ve never seen him.
“Do it.” His hands claw at the sheets, then the air, then my shoulders, like he needs to anchor himself to something real before he comes apart completely. “Please. Fuck. I need it.”
I thought he might. I think he needs a lot more than my finger inside him. More than my anatomy can provide.
One step at a time.
I continue to hum around his hardness, working his shaft with my lips and a lot of saliva. Gathering that wetness, I swirl it around his anus and slowly, slowly, so fucking slowly press my smallest digit inside.
He’s only ever experienced dry, violent, excruciating penetration against his will.
This is his decision, not a taking, but a giving, his body stretching and inviting me in.
The vein in his neck stands out, pulsing under flushed skin. His chest rises fast as if he can’t haul air in or out. His legs tense, long muscles straining, every inch of him wound up and fighting to stay still. Fighting not to finish early.
I continue to work him, studying every adjustment and spasm, hyperaware of the heat, the lubrication, the way his cock fills my mouth and his ass grips my pinky finger.
His hips jerk involuntarily, his breath catching in short bursts, but he doesn’t pull away. He presses into my touch, driving deeper into my mouth, chasing more, more, more.
I hold him there, right at that trembling edge, giving him exactly what he asked for.
More.
Using the pad of my finger to locate his prostate, I stroke upward in a come-hither motion. Then I apply a steady pressure that bows his back off the bed.
“Fuck, Dove. I’m coming. Coming so hard.” He fists my hair and fucks my mouth, spilling heavy heat into my throat.
I savor the salty, clean taste of him, swallowing him down and stroking him through the release until he settles.
As I start to sit back, he grabs my hips and pulls me onto his chest, taking us both to the mattress.
“Where did you learn to do that?” His hands find my ass, his fingers absently kneading.
I’ve been with men who loved ass play. Over the years, a few taught me how to do it properly. One man, as it turns out, also liked my stepbrother’s dick in his ass.
Come to think of it, how many of my past lovers were secretly gay? How many was Jag fucking behind my back?
I wait for the anger to rise, but it doesn’t. Gavin lied to me about many things, the biggest one being his sexual orientation. But he didn’t deserve to die.
Regret is the emotion that squeezes my chest. I should’ve been more selective about my partners. Should’ve used better judgment rather than seeking a warm body out of loneliness and a desperate, misplaced need for love.
How pathetic.
“Whatever you’re thinking, knock it off.” Wolf grips my chin, forcing my eyes to his. “I will never shame you for the lovers you’ve had. But I will shame them.”
“Why them?”
“Because they lost you. Tragic.” He runs his thumb over my Medusa piercing. “Their loss is my reward.”
My heart flutters. “How do you do that?”
“What?”
“Read me so clearly and say the right things. You’re too good to be true.”
“I’m just me.” He shrugs. “And I’m yours.”
This feeling he stirs… It’s not soft or floaty. It’s a pressure in my ribs. A rush of adrenaline. A pulse that won’t settle, no matter how still I sit. It’s my guard rising, then dropping, then rising again, fighting a battle I already lost.
“And I’m yours.” I kiss him slowly, languidly, and pull back, moving toward the bathroom. “I’m going to get ready for bed.”
As I wash my hands and brush my teeth, I replay Wolf’s orgasm in my mind.
There may come a time when my finger isn’t enough, when toys aren’t enough, when my soft, womanly body isn’t enough.
What if he needs something different, someone different, to figure himself out?
A man.
A new dynamic.
A direction I can’t compete with.
The idea of sharing him makes me murderous. Not petty jealousy. Ugly, selfish possessiveness. I don’t want to be the kind of woman who digs her claws into him, cages him, and keeps him from exploring whatever he needs to understand about himself.
But the thought of stepping aside?
No.
Hell fucking no.
I’ll fight for him with every drop of blood in my body. And we’ll figure it out. I’ll find a way.
As I slip out of the bathroom and pause in the doorway, my frightening spiral of thoughts unclenches.
Wolf sprawls on his back, an arm tossed above his head, the other resting against his stomach. Passed out cold.
Dark waves of hair stick to his forehead and fall across his cheek, completely untamed. And his face…
God.
Every ounce of tension he carries, the pain, the shadows, all of it has drained out of him. What’s left is unarmored, gentle, boyish innocence.
His lashes lie thick and dark against his cheeks, his full lips parted and swollen from our kisses. No nightmares. No tight breaths. No haunted flickers under his lids.
I turn off the lights, letting the moon take over, the glow spilling through the open balcony door. The curtains drift lazily, turning the room into a slow-moving hush of shadows and warm breeze.
I climb onto the bed and curl into his side. He shifts instinctively, even in sleep, an arm sweeping around me and pulling me against his chest. His breath fans across my forehead, and just like that, I join him in the land of dreams.
Sometime later, movement wakes me.
Wolf eases me onto my back, his naked body settling over mine, solid and warm. His palms glide down my hips, coaxing my legs open.
“Bluebird.” He hooks a finger in the crotch of my undies and pushes it to the side. “I need you.”
It’s dark, and he’s on top of me, hard as a rock and wanting me like it’s the easiest truth in the world.
Everything inside me goes molten. I reach for him instinctively, palms sliding over the solid muscles of his ass, pulling him closer.
He sinks into me, entering slowly, deeper with each breath, until there’s no space left between us. Just heat and fullness and the weight of his body fitting perfectly against mine.
“I dreamed this.” He steals my mouth, kissing me with a consuming desperation that leaves me dizzy and clutching at him. “But it’s not a dream.”
“It’s real.”
“It’s fucking real.” He draws back and surges in again, setting a slow, powerful rhythm. “I didn’t dream you. You’re real.”
“I’m real.” I open my legs wider and pull him in deeper.
He fucks into me, groaning into our kiss, and finishing as quickly as he started. I’m not awake enough to come with him, but as we separate, he repositions us, pulls my back to his chest, and pushes into me from behind.
This time, he doesn’t thrust. With my backside flush against his pelvis and his arm curled around my waist, he falls asleep inside me.
Another first.
I’ve never done the post-coital cuddling thing, let alone fallen asleep with a man inside me. I never knew it could be like this.
Safe. Held. Claimed. This is what love feels like.
My eyes drift shut, and I’m out within seconds.
When I wake again, the room is dark and quiet except for the soft rush of the ocean outside. The balcony curtains billow, letting a stray draft brush my bare legs.
Wolf’s no longer pressed against my back.
Beside me, he sprawls face down, cheek smashed into the pillow, the sheets tangled low around his hips, exposing the long lines of his back and cords of muscle down his sides.
My eyes adjust slowly, shapes sharpening in the blue-gray glow, as my senses come online.
That’s when I feel it, something hard and round tucked into the center of my curled hand.
I blink, confused, and open my palm.
A rock. Small and smooth like so many of the stones scattering the shoreline.
I squint, rolling it with my thumb, turning it over.
There’s writing on it. Black sharpie. A single word.
My heart pounds as I tilt it toward the weak light. It takes a second, but the letters resolve.
Come
My eyes snap fully open, and adrenaline pours through me so fast I sit up on instinct, twisting toward the balcony door.
It stands open, just like I left it, the curtains swaying lazily in the warm breeze.
Nothing looks disturbed.
Heart racing, I scan the room, the corners, the shadows, the closet door cracked an inch.
Nothing.
No Jag.
No movement except the slow rise and fall of Wolf’s back as he breathes, dead asleep.
If Jag is here… If Jag came into this room while we slept…