Chapter 25
Tess
I woke up warm.
Not the regular kind of warm—wrapped in six and a half feet of gargoyle, his arm heavy across my waist, his chest a solid wall of heat against my back.
God, I'd missed this.
The last few weeks had been brutal in ways I hadn't expected.
Different teams, different assignments, different corners of the grounds—and every night I'd crawled into a bed that felt too big and too cold and too quiet.
I'd spent more nights than I wanted to admit pressing my face into his pillow just to catch the fading scent of stone and cedar.
The bond had ached with it. A constant pull of missing that sat in my chest.
But now he was here. And I was here. And the relief of it was almost embarrassing—how quickly my whole body had settled the moment he'd pulled me against him last night, like every tense, restless thing in me finally let go.
My legs were tangled with his, his thigh between mine, and every slow breath he took moved through me in steady waves.
He ran hot—always—but in the mornings he was hotter still, heat radiating off his skin in slow waves.
I lay still. Very still. Because his thigh was right there and if I shifted even a little I'd feel it exactly where I didn't need to feel it right now.
Or exactly where I did.
My pulse was already picking up, heat building low in my belly just from the weight of him behind me, the solid press of his body along every inch of mine.
Weeks. It had been weeks, and I was already wet just from this—from his arm across my waist, from the cedar-and-stone smell of his skin, from the slow expansion of his chest against my back.
I pressed back. Just barely. Just enough to feel the hard ridge of his thigh shift between mine, and my breath caught and I held it there, not moving, not breathing, the ache between my legs entirely his fault for being this close and this big and this warm.
Want moved through the bond—mine first, then his waking to meet it.
His breathing shifted. Not awake yet, not quite—but his hand moved. A slow drag across my stomach, fingers spread wide, the rough pads of his fingertips catching on my skin. His mouth found the back of my neck. Not a kiss. Just his lips, parted slightly, breathing me in.
"Mason."
A low sound vibrated against my neck. Not a word. A rumble from his chest. His arm tightened, pulling me back against him until there was no space left between us. And I felt him. Thick and getting harder against my ass, the length of him pressing into the curve of me.
And through the bond—a heavy pulse of want that wasn't mine. His arousal bleeding through, and feeling it on top of my own made my thighs clench around his.
His hand moved with purpose now. Up my ribcage, slow enough to make me hold my breath, then over my breast. His palm covered me completely—his hands were ridiculous—and his thumb dragged across my nipple.
I arched into it—the peak already tight against his palm, the rough drag of his calluses sending heat straight between my legs. My spine curved, pressing my back harder against his chest, and I reached back, found his hip, dug my fingers in and pulled him closer.
"Missed you," he said against my shoulder.
"I'm right here."
His teeth grazed the curve of my neck and my breath stuttered. He was fully hard now, his cock thick and heavy against me, and the slow grind of his hips was sending sparks down my thighs. His other arm was under me, wrapped around my ribs, pinning me to him. I couldn't move much. He had me.
I didn't want to move.
His fingers trailed down my stomach. Lower. They paused at my hip, his thumb tracing the bone there, and I stopped breathing. My whole body was tuned to the path of his hand—where it was, where it wasn't, the unbearable inch of skin between his fingertips and where I needed them.
My thighs were already trembling. I could feel my own pulse between my legs, and I almost said it—please—the word right there on my tongue, but then his fingers dipped lower and I opened for him before he got there.
His fingers slid between my legs and found me soaked—and the sound he made against my neck almost undid me on its own. I gasped, my hips jerking, and his grip on me tightened hard enough that I felt each individual finger pressing into my hip.
He found my clit immediately—like he'd memorized me, like his hand knew exactly where to go—and stroked me, two fingers working through slick heat with a confidence that made my toes curl.
His cock ground against my ass, his mouth hot and open on my neck. The combination—his hand between my legs, his body surrounding me, the bond pulling taut—made my hips rock forward into his touch.
"That's it," he murmured. His voice was wrecked and we'd barely started.
I was panting. Already. My hand found his forearm—the one between my legs—and held on, feeling the tendons shift under his skin as he worked me.
Then his hand left me.
"No—" The protest came out before I could stop it, and I felt him exhale a rough laugh against my neck. Then the blunt, thick head of his cock pressed against my entrance from behind.
This angle. We hadn't—
My breath caught. My chest fluttered. Just the newness of it, the way I couldn't see him, could only feel him everywhere. I felt more held like this. More surrounded. More his.
Is this going to—
He pushed in slow.
Oh.
The stretch was different this way. Deeper.
The angle changed everything—he hit places that made my vision blur, and he was so goddamn big that every inch felt intentional, felt like he was filling space inside me that had been waiting for exactly him.
My body adjusted—opened for him, accommodated him—and the slow, relentless press of it pulled a sound out of me I didn't recognize.
I grabbed the arm wrapped around my ribs and held on, my nails biting into his skin.
"Okay?" His mouth against my ear.
"Don't stop."
He groaned when he bottomed out. For a moment we just breathed. I was so full of him I could feel my own heartbeat around his cock.
Then he started to move.
Slow. Deep. His hips rolling against my ass in a rhythm that was almost lazy if it weren't for the force behind it.
Each thrust pressed me forward and his arm pulled me back, and his hand slid down between my legs again—fingers finding my clit, working me in firm circles while he fucked me from behind.
God. More. Right there. Don't—
My back arched, pressing harder against him, and the angle shifted and I took him deeper and I couldn't—I couldn't think.
His gargoyle strength was there in the arm holding me, in the grip that would leave marks I'd trace later with my fingertips.
Hard enough to remind me what he was. What he could do.
And how carefully, how deliberately, he chose not to.
Then his control slipped.
A thrust landed harder than the others, his hips snapping forward with a force that shoved me up the bed, and the sound that tore out of him was lower than a groan.
Almost a growl, vibrating against my shoulder, and his fingers dug into my hip hard enough to bruise.
For a half-second his whole body went rigid behind me—catching himself, pulling back—
And I grabbed his hand on my hip and held it there.
"Don't," I breathed. "Don't hold back."
The sound he made sent a bolt of fire straight through my core.
The rhythm built. His thrusts got harder, faster—each one driving the breath out of me in sharp gasps. His exhales came ragged against my neck—each one a sound.
His fingers matched the pace. Pressure on my clit that didn't let up while he drove into me, and through the bond his pleasure crashed into mine, his need feeding my own until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.
I could feel how tight I was around him, how good it felt for him—his sensation and mine stacking, spiraling, building toward a wreck we'd both feel for hours.
"Mason—I'm—"
"I know." His voice was shattered. "I feel you."
Too much. His hand. His cock. The bond pouring through me. My thoughts fractured—there, there, don't stop, I can't—
My whole body was tightening around him. My grip white-knuckled on his forearm, my thighs trembling, every muscle coiling toward the edge. His fingers pressed harder, his hips drove forward, and the bond blew open between us—
I shattered.
My body clamped down around his cock and I couldn't control it, couldn't control anything—my back bowing against his chest, his name in my mouth—Mason—and through the bond I felt his orgasm cresting, felt the exact moment his control finally broke apart, and it hit me on top of my own and I couldn't tell whose pleasure was whose anymore.
Just sensation. Just him. Just us. Everywhere.
He followed me over. His arm locked around my waist, his hips surged forward one last time, burying himself deep, and he came inside me with a groan I felt vibrate through my spine. His face buried in my neck. His breath ragged. His whole body shaking against mine.
For a long time, neither of us moved.
His thumb traced a slow circle on my hip—the same spot his fingers had dug in. I could still feel him inside me, softening but there, and the intimacy of it made my throat tight in a way that had nothing to do with the sex.
I turned in his arms. His eyes were half-open, and the look on his face made my chest ache.
I kissed him. Slow and unhurried—the first real kiss of the morning. His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, my fingers tracing the scar on his jaw. He kissed me back like we had nowhere to be, and for a few seconds, we didn't.