Chapter 19
Damien
Islam the door shut behind us, the sound echoing through my bedroom like a gunshot.
“Come here,” I growl, stalking toward Karina as she backs deeper into my room.
She doesn't look afraid—far from it actually.
“Damien—” she starts, but I don't let her finish.
I cross the distance between us in two strides, lifting her against me with hands that tremble from the effort of not being rough.
My mouth finds hers, swallowing whatever she was about to say.
The kiss is hungry, desperate. A kiss that has nothing to do with pack politics and everything to do with the reckless courage that makes me want to worship her and shake her at the same time.
“You,” I declare against her lips, walking her backward until her spine meets the wall, “are the most infuriating woman I've ever met.”
Her legs wrap around my waist, ankles locking behind my back as I press her harder against the wall. My hands slide beneath her thighs, supporting her weight as if she's made of air instead of flesh and bone.
“I thought you'd be angrier,” she declares, her fingers threading through my hair, tugging just hard enough to make me hiss. “I am angry.”
I grind against her, letting her feel exactly how angry—and aroused—I am. The hard length of me presses against her core through the thin barrier of my jeans, drawing a soft gasp from her lips that goes straight to my cock.
“I'm furious,” I correct, my mouth moving to her throat. “You want to use yourself as bait. You want to walk into a room with a male who's been hunting you for months, and you think I should smile and nod?”
Her head falls back against the wall, exposing more of her neck to my attention. I drag my teeth along the sensitive skin, not quite biting but close enough to make her shiver.
“But you agreed,” she breathes, her hips rolling against mine in a rhythm that makes rational thought nearly impossible.
“Because you're right, and I fucking hate that you're right.” I pull back to look at her, my hands tightening on her thighs. “Do you have any idea what it does to me? Knowing you're willing to put yourself in danger?”
“It makes my wolf insane,” I continue, one hand sliding up to cup her face. “Makes me want to chain you to this bed so you can never leave my sight again.”
Her breath catches, and I feel a rush of fire through our connection that has nothing to do with fear. My mate likes the idea of being at my mercy, completely under my control.
“But that's not what you need, is it?”
“I'm tired of being afraid. Tired of letting others decide my fate.”
“Then we do this together.” I lean my forehead against hers, breathing in her scent—now permanently mixed with mine in a way that makes my wolf purr with satisfaction. “But when we walk into that club, you follow my lead. No improvising. No heroics.”
“I can handle myself. I took self-defense. I got away from you—”
“I know you can.” My hands slide up her sides. “That's what terrifies me.”
I capture her mouth again, this kiss slower but no less consuming. She tastes like home and danger, like everything I never knew I needed. When I finally pull away, we're both breathing hard.
“I need to make some calls,” I say, though every instinct roars at me to scoop her up and take her to the bed instead.
Her fingers tighten in my shirt, preventing me from stepping away. “Wait.”
I pause, raising an eyebrow at her.
“This might be the only time we have before everything starts moving,” she says, soft but resolute. “A few moments delay won’t hurt, will it?”
A laugh nearly escapes me at the absurdity. A few minutes? As if what I want from her could be contained in that.
“You think I can take you against this wall in minutes and be satisfied?” I growl, caging her between my arms, palms braced against the plaster. “That’s almost insulting, kitten.”
Her breath stutters, pupils blown wide as I lean closer. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know exactly what you meant.” My lips skim her ear, each word dragging heat over her skin. “You want me before the calls. Before the plan sets fire to everything. Before the world comes crashing down.”
She shivers, her silence louder than any denial. “Yes,” she breathes at last, sliding her fingers under my shirt to trace the ridges of muscle. “Is that so wrong?”
“No.” I catch her wrists, pinning them high above her head in one hand. “But don’t expect me to be gentle when you look at me like this.”
My free hand trails down her body, tugging the hem of my shirt higher along her frame, the fabric gliding over warm skin until her hip is bare.
“The calls can wait,” I rasp. “Everything can wait.”
I let her hands go, pulling my shirt over my head in one rough motion. Her gaze drags over me, lingering on the tattoos that brand me as my father’s son.
“I love the way you look at me,” I admit, fingers working the buttons of the shirt she wears—my shirt. “Like I’m worth wanting instead of worth fearing.”
“You are worth wanting.” She lays her hands over mine as the fabric parts. “You’re mine.”
The ferocity in her words rakes through me, my wolf throwing back his head in savage triumph.
Button by button, more of her skin is revealed, the traces of my bond standing out against her flesh.
By the time the shirt slips from her shoulders, I’m already straining, every nerve alight with the need to have her again.
“Beautiful.” My hands skim over her ribs, her waist, the flare of her hips. “Every inch of you.”
I lift her again, carrying her the few steps to my bed. This time I'm not gentle as I lay her down, my body covering hers with predatory intent. She arches beneath me, her hands fisting in the sheets as I trail my mouth down her throat, tasting the salt of her skin.
“I can’t get enough of you,” I growl against her collarbone, my mouth trailing lower, tasting every inch of her. “Hours buried inside you, and I’m still starving for more.”
Her response is a breathy moan that vibrates through our connection, doubling the sensation. I feel her pleasure as if it's my own, amplified and reflected until I can't tell where I end and she begins.
My hands map every curve, every hollow, relearning territory I’ve already discovered but need to possess all over again. When my fingers find the slick warmth between her thighs, she bucks against me, nails biting crescents into my shoulders.
“Please,” she gasps, and the sound of her begging makes something savage unfurl in my chest.
I don’t make her wait. Can’t make her wait. My fingers drive into her wetness while my thumb teases the bundle of nerves that makes her cry out. She’s already so responsive, so achingly ready for me.
“Look at me. I want to see every flicker of pleasure when you break for me. Every drop of it is mine.”
Her stare meets mine, heavy-lidded, glazed with need. I add another finger, curling them deep as my thumb circles her swollen peak. She clutches at me, slick and tight, the sounds she makes—broken gasps, desperate little cries—driving me to the edge of madness.
“That’s it,” I rasp, watching her come undone as tension coils tighter and tighter in her body. “Let me feel it. Show me what I do to you.”
The connection between us surges with shared sensation, her ecstasy flooding my system until I’m drowning in it. When she finally shatters, sobbing my name as her body convulses around my fingers, I feel her orgasm as if it were my own.
But it’s not enough. It will never be enough.
I pull free, ignoring her protest, and fumble with my jeans. Denim scrapes my oversensitive skin as I shove them down and kick them away with too much force.
“I need to be inside you,” I growl, settling between her thighs. “Need to feel you grip me.”
She nods, reaching for me, guiding me home.
The first slide into her makes us both groan.
I can feel everything she feels—every nerve ending sparking as I fill her completely.
I pause, buried to the hilt, fighting for control as sensation tears through our link.
Her body clutches me like a velvet fist, so perfect I can barely think.
“Move,” she begs, nails dragging down my back hard enough to draw fire in their wake. “Please, Damien.”
I don't need to be asked twice. I pull back slowly, savoring the drag of friction, before driving forward again with enough force to make the headboard slam against the wall. The sound should probably concern me—my father's compound has excellent acoustics—but I'm beyond caring who hears us.
I feel her body's response to every thrust, every shift in angle, every change in rhythm.
It's overwhelming, experiencing her pleasure alongside my own until I can't tell where I end and she begins.
When I hit that spot deep inside her that makes her back arch off the mattress, I feel the spike of sensation through both our nervous systems simultaneously.
“Fuck,” I gasp, my rhythm stuttering as the dual sensations threaten to overwhelm me. “I can feel everything you feel.”
Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my lower back as she meets each thrust with desperate urgency. “Don't stop,” she pants, her head thrown back against the pillows. “I'm so close—”
I can feel how close she is through our connection—the tension coiling tighter in her core, the way her inner walls flutter around me. It drives me harder, faster, deeper. It’s not enough. Nowhere near enough.
“Turn over,” I command.
She blinks up at me, momentarily confused.
I pull out of her, ignoring her whimper of protest, and flip her onto her stomach with hands that shake from restraint. “On your knees.”
She complies instantly, rising onto all fours. The sight of her like this—vulnerable, exposed, waiting for me—nearly breaks what little control I have left.
I grab a fistful of her hair, wrapping it around my hand until I can pull her head back, exposing the elegant curve of her throat. Her gasp of surprise turns into a moan of pleasure as I position myself behind her.