Chapter 26 This Feels Right #2
“More than you’d think.” His voice was tired.
“He’s been steering my life since I was a kid.
Made me drop hockey when I was twelve because it wasn’t ‘useful.’ Ended a friendship with a human boy the year after because he didn’t like the influence.
Chose my classes, my training, who I was allowed to be seen with.
He wants the next alpha shaped exactly the way he sees fit. This marriage is just the next move.”
I glanced up at him. “And you’ve let him?”
“For a long time, yes.” He let out a weary breath. “I learned early that fighting him on everything was pointless. So I started picking my battles. I saved my strength for the ones that actually matter.”
“This matters.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It does.”
I thought about telling him everything. About Thomas, about my past, about why this hit so hard. But I held back. Not tonight.
We continued toward the house in silence, his solid warmth pressed against my side. The trees gradually thinned until the porch light cut through the darkness ahead of us.
He stopped me on the steps. “Can I stay with you tonight?”
The question hung between us, soft but real. My cat perked up instantly, hopeful. This would be the first night I let someone share my space, the first time I slept beside a man, truly vulnerable and close.
I thought about it, then nodded.
His relief was subtle but unmistakable. He squeezed my hand once, then let go.
“I’ll grab my bag,” he said, handing me the yarn ball before heading toward his car.
I stood on the steps with the ridiculous yarn ball in my arms and watched him cross the yard. A moment later he came back with an overnight bag already slung over his shoulder.
I raised a brow. “You came prepared.”
He gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “Just hopeful.”
Inside, the kitchen lights were on. Mira and Talia were at the counter, eating noodles straight from the pot. The second we walked in, both of them looked up — and then froze completely.
Mira slowly set her fork down. Talia blinked once. Then again, like she needed a second look to believe it.
Jackson glanced at me, mildly concerned. “Why are they looking at me like that?”
“Good question,” I said.
Talia recovered first. Her eyes dropped to the giant yarn ball still tucked under my arm and she pointed at it. “What… is that?”
“A yarn ball,” I said.
“Oh my God,” Mira breathed, eyes wide. “He made you a cat toy.”
Jackson’s mouth twitched. “I worked very hard making it.”
“I can tell,” Talia said, fighting a grin. “It has feathers.”
I gestured between them. “Jackson, these are my roommates. Mira. Talia.”
Mira gave a little wave, still openly staring. “Hi. We’ve heard absolutely nothing about you.”
“Nothing at all,” Talia added, far too innocently. “We definitely haven’t been analyzing you in the group chat for the past three weeks.”
I shot them a look. “I’m not even in that chat.”
“Exactly,” Mira said sweetly.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You two are impossible.”
They both looked entirely too pleased with themselves.
We grabbed plates and ate standing at the counter. Mira and Talia mostly behaved themselves, though they kept shooting Jackson curious glances between bites.
Afterward, we headed to my room. I set the oversized yarn ball on the shelf above my desk, then climbed onto the bed with him.
We curled up together with my laptop and put on a reality show about people fighting over a beach house.
Jackson stared at the screen like he couldn’t believe people actually behaved that way.
“How do you watch this,” he muttered.
“It’s so ridiculous it shuts my brain off,” I said.
We stayed like that for a while, half watching, half dozing against each other, until the episode ended and the quiet of the house settled in.
Later, we stood side by side at the bathroom sink brushing our teeth in companionable silence.
I changed into a camisole and sleep shorts while he stripped down to his boxers.
When we finally climbed into bed he pulled me against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world, hooked his chin over my head, and let out a slow breath.
“This feels right,” he murmured into my hair.
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I trusted how good it felt. Sleep eventually pulled me under anyway.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I was lost in the best kind of dream about Jackson. My hips rolled lazily against the mattress, thighs pressed tight together, heat pooling low in my belly.
A low, rough voice brushed against my ear. “What are you dreaming about?”
His scent surrounded me, warm and unmistakably real.
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t even sure I could. I hovered somewhere between sleep and waking, body still humming.
At some point we had shifted in our sleep. I was on my side now, Jackson curled behind me, his big body molded to mine. One arm was tucked under my head, the other draped heavily across my waist, his hand resting low on my hip.
His grip tightened possessively. “It better be about me.”
I didn’t open my eyes. I only pressed back against him. He sucked in a sharp breath. Through the thin fabric between us I could feel how hard he already was.
His hand tightened on my hip, pulling me closer until there was no space left.
I shifted again, slower this time. Deliberate. My legs pressed together as I angled my hips back, seeking more of that pressure.
His breath hitched against my neck. "You keep doing that and I'm going to lose what's left of my self-control."
"Then maybe stop talking," I whispered.
My body already had ideas of its own. I pressed my thighs together against the ache and moved back against him again.
His hand slid inside my shorts. I pushed back into the touch, making it clear I wanted more.
His fingers found me easily, sliding through the wetness in slow circles that made my breath catch hard in my throat.
“You’re so wet,” he murmured, a low rumble building in his chest.
He dipped a finger inside me, then back to my clit, unhurried, like he was testing how far he could take me. I kept my eyes closed and let him work, floating in that hazy space between sleep and need. Everything felt muted and sharp at the same time.
“I need you,” I breathed, clumsy as I shoved my shorts down and kicked them off the bed.
He stilled for half a second, then pushed his boxers down.
He settled in behind me again, the hard length of him sliding between my thighs, through the wet heat there.
Each slow stroke brushed exactly where I needed him most. He didn’t push inside.
He just kept moving like that — letting me feel every inch of him, making me ask for it.
I tilted my hips back, trying to catch him. He held still.
“Say you want it.”
“Jackson.” My voice broke. “Please. Fuck me.”
A low rumble answered me. He adjusted, found the angle, and pushed in. The stretch made me bite down on my lip as he filled me inch by inch, pulling me tight against his chest, his arm locking across my middle.
He started to move. Shallow at first, then deeper with every stroke. Soft sounds kept leaving my throat as his hand slid between my legs again, finding the same rhythm that made it impossible to think of anything else.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he rasped against my neck.
His next thrust went deeper. The hand under my head shifted, fingers finding my breast, my nipple tightening under his touch, while the other kept working between my legs in the same relentless rhythm.
It still wasn’t enough.
I lifted my top leg, hooking it back over his thigh to open myself wider. He took the invitation immediately, driving deeper. His thrusts grew harder, more urgent.
When his teeth closed gently on the muscle at my nape, something inside me snapped. My hips pushed back against him without thought.
He felt it. In one smooth motion, he rolled me onto my stomach, pulled my hips up, and slid back into me from behind. The new angle made me moan into the pillow as he drove in deep, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my hip to hold me steady.
His mouth found my neck again, a slow drag of his tongue before his teeth closed down.
I came hard, clenching around him, face buried in the pillow to muffle the sound.
He kept going, chasing his own release with rough, deep strokes until he groaned low against my hair and spilled inside me, hips locked tight.
Afterward he lowered himself over me carefully, then rolled us onto our sides without pulling out. His hand traced slow circles on my hip as our breathing gradually evened out.
I was almost asleep again when I felt him give a small, testing thrust, still half-hard inside me. A soft sound slipped from my throat.
“Go back to sleep, baby,” he murmured against my hair. “I’ve got you.”
I did, with him still buried deep inside me.
The next conscious thing was a phone ringing.
I was on my stomach now, Jackson half on top of me, still draped along my back, his face buried against the side of my neck. I groaned and shifted under his weight, not ready to leave the warmth of it.
The phone kept ringing. He stirred behind me, slow at first.
“Get your damn phone,” I mumbled into the pillow.
It had to be early. The light at the window was barely there, just a faint grey starting to bleed into the room.
The ringing didn’t stop.
He rolled off me with a heavy exhale and went to dig through the pile of clothes on the floor. I turned onto my side to watch him, still half-asleep.
For a brief second, it hit me that I’d actually slept like that. Let someone that close. Let him stay.
And I didn’t regret it.
He found his jeans, pulled out the phone, and the moment he saw the screen, the change in his face was instant. Softness gone. Replaced with something sharp, awake and closed off.
“Who is it?” I asked, my voice still rough with sleep.
He stared at the display for another beat.
"My dad."