Chapter 42
Chapter forty-two
Luna
Iclose the door behind Damien and lean against it, my fingers still tingling from where they touched his chest.
My lips burn with the memory of his kiss, first fierce and demanding, nothing like the polite, restrained man who shared dinner with me. Then it shifted into an achingly gentle caress that reached inside and stirred parts of me I’d buried and forgotten existed. The contrast leaves me reeling.
I press my fingertips to my mouth, still tasting him. Red wine underlaid with an edge that defies description, wild and untamed, like lightning before it strikes.
Shadow whines beside me, nudging my hand. I run my fingers through his thick fur. He tilts his head, those soulful eyes studying me, and I swear he smirks at me.
“I know, baby.” I push away from the door.
I finish cleaning the kitchen on autopilot, loading the wine glasses into the dishwasher and wiping down the counter before flipping the machine on.
My hands move through the motions while my brain replays the kiss on an endless loop.
My stomach flutters with guilt braided through desire.
I’m caught between the memory of Damien’s mouth on mine and the weight of what feels like betrayal.
Because tonight, my wolf will come to me. My core clenches, arousal already gathering between my thighs. My body knows what’s coming. It craves it. Craves him, even as my heart rebels against the complexity of wanting two men.
I walk Ghost back to the sanctuary building, letting him do his last business of the night.
I tried to bring him into the house with us, but he resisted.
His preference for solitude likely stems from his past life alone outdoors, and I respect his autonomy.
He likes to greet Maren when she arrives in the mornings, so we set up a bed in the lobby for him.
The fox family gets a final check before Shadow and I make our way back to the house. I lock up, setting the alarm, but I don’t know why I bother. It won’t keep him out; I don’t want it to, but I still arm it.
The air in my bedroom tonight is thick, charged with anticipation and anxiety. I move to the window, drawn by habit to look out into the darkness beyond. Shadows make the forest seem endless, thick, and impenetrable. Somewhere out there, he’s watching. He’s always watching.
Did he see what happened?
Of course he did. He sees everything. The knowledge that he witnessed my kiss with Damien makes my stomach knot with both dread and excitement.
I strip down to my bra and panties, then hesitate. Should I shower? Should I try to wash away Damien’s scent, his touch? Or would that only make things worse?
In the end, I take a shower. I don’t need to tempt his beast that much.
I wash my body, letting my hands skim over it, still thinking about Damien’s kiss and how my heart thudded against my ribs while his mouth moved against my own.
I slide my hands lower, slipping them between my thighs where I’m pulsing, my fingers sliding through the slick flesh.
My eyes drift closed, Damien’s face flashing behind my eyelids.
The way he smiled at me tonight. Then my wolf’s face replaces it, with his gleaming silver mask.
My fingers pick up their pace as the image of him in my mind begins to flash, switching back and forth between the two men who seem to have a hold on me I can’t explain.
I lean against the tile and slip one finger, then a second, inside. My moan bounces off the bathroom walls as I imagine my wolf’s hands instead of mine, the way his fingers curl just so.
Then Damien’s image breaks through, uninvited but impossible to ignore. How would his feel?
His cock had burned against my abdomen through the fabric of his pants, a brand that lingers even now.
The echo of that pressure sends heat flaring under my skin with both guilt and longing.
My wolf satisfies every physical craving, wringing pleasure from my body until I can’t remember my own name.
He knows exactly how to unravel me, how to build me up and tear me down until I exist only for his touch.
But rebellion stirs in my chest when I think of Damien, a dangerous curiosity that feels like cheating.
Why am I imagining another man’s hands, wondering how Damien’s touch would compare?
Whether he’d be gentle where my wolf is rough, patient where my wolf is demanding.
Why am I wondering how he’d fill me, how his rhythm would differ from the relentless pace I’ve grown accustomed to?
The betrayal in these thoughts cuts deeper than what happened on the porch. At least then it was only my body responding. This is my mind choosing to stray, painting vivid pictures of a man who isn’t mine to want.
My fingers move faster, and their faces swim together in my mind. My wolf’s jaw tightening the way it does before he comes inside me, and Damien’s crooked smile that never quite reaches his serious eyes. The mask’s dark eyeholes versus storm-blue irises that hold me captive.
They morph back and forth from one to the other until they blur together.
One face.
Two sets of eyes.
The pressure builds and then breaks. My back arches off the tile as waves crash through me, my muscles contracting around my fingers in rhythmic pulses.
I slide down to the floor, my legs too weak to hold me.
Water streams over my shoulders as my body trembles with aftershocks.
My fingers trace idle patterns against the inside of my thigh as my breathing slows.
I close my eyes, waiting for the familiar weight to press down, the tightness that should come.
Guilt for wanting the man who knows my body more intimately than I do now. Remorse for wanting a man I wish knew it as well.
But no crushing self-recrimination materializes. Only the breathless realization that settles in my chest like a stone.
I wish I could have them both.
I step out of the shower and dry off, my body still humming, but, God help me, still craving more. I brush my teeth, washing away the memory of Damien’s taste. Not that it will matter. My wolf won’t kiss me. And that knowledge makes me feel hollow again.
Should I bother dressing? He’s only going to strip me as soon as he gets here, tearing away whatever fabric dares to separate us.
Should I just throw on an old t-shirt and call it a night?
Or should I wear something that might make him pause, make him see me as more than only a body to claim in the darkness?
I slip into the nightgown I bought a few weeks ago from the Victoria’s Secret catalog Maren brought to work to shop for a surprise for JT.
The silk slides over my skin like liquid, so soft it’s barely there.
Material this soft shouldn’t exist, whispering across every curve as it settles just below my hips.
Lace cups cradle my breasts in intricate weaves that reveal more than they conceal, and the thin straps feel like silk ribbons against my shoulders.
It’s the same deep purple as the bedding my wolf bought to replace the sheets after our first encounter during my period. The first night it happened, he pushed me onto my stomach in the middle of my bed despite my protests and fucked me until the sheets looked like a crime scene.
Each night after that, he appeared with fresh purple sheets, a ritual both disturbing and considerate. The day my period ended, a delivery truck arrived with a new mattress set and plastic cover, accompanied by a simple note.
Be ready for next month.
I run my fingers over the silk covering my body, marveling at how it clings in all the right places.
It’s beautiful, flowing, and feminine. Everything I want to be for him, even if he’ll tear it away within minutes of his arrival.
I wear it anyway, a small act of defiance or maybe an olive branch wrapped in purple silk.
Am I being deceptive? The question gnaws at me as I study my reflection in the mirror.
The nightgown transforms me into someone sultry, someone aware of her power.
My nipples peek through the lace, and when I move, the silk parts at the front, offering tantalizing glimpses of what lies beneath.
I want to distract him from my betrayal, yes, but more than that, I want him to lose control.
I want him to see me in this whisper of fabric and be so overcome with lust that he can’t think straight, can’t do anything but tear it from my body and take me with the desperation that burns between us night after night.
My heart pounds, each beat echoing in my ears.
An almost unbearable anticipation crawls under my skin.
The not knowing whether he’ll be gentle or rough, whether he’ll punish me for letting another man’s lips touch mine, or simply claim me harder to remind me who I belong to.
Uncertainty sets my skin ablaze, making the silk feel like fire against my fevered flesh.
He vowed he’d kill any man who touched me, but I have to believe he won’t. Is that why I’m dressing like this? To show him that the kiss didn’t matter?
But it did.
Minutes stretch into an hour. Still, he doesn’t come.
Doubt creeps in. What if tonight is the night he doesn’t show? What if my kiss with Damien was the final straw, the betrayal that drove him away for good? The panic that grips me runs deeper than I want to acknowledge.
I’ve grown addicted to his touch, to the way he makes me feel powerful and powerless all at once. He’s become as essential to me as breathing, and the idea of losing him is unbearable.