Chapter 12
Nadia
Heat. That’s the first thing I’m aware of. Heat beneath my palms, solid and bare and impossibly warm. My hands are splayed across skin, mapping muscle and bone and the steady thunder of a heartbeat that races beneath my touch.
Mouth on mine. Hot. Demanding. Kissing me like he’s been starving for this, like I’m the only thing that matters, like nothing exists except this friction and heat and need.
My hips move, grinding my mound against something hard. Thick. The pressure sends sparks through my nervous system, makes me gasp into his mouth, makes me rock harder, seeking more of that perfect friction.
His hands are in my hair. On my back. Sliding under fabric to find bare skin. Every touch makes me arch closer, makes sounds escape my throat that I don’t recognize, makes the heat building in my belly coil tighter.
I want—
Need—
My wolf is snarling approval. Demanding more. Demanding everything.
His mouth moves to my throat, and teeth scrape against my pulse point. Not breaking skin. Just pressure. Just the promise of marking and claiming and—
Something shifts.
The mattress beneath me is real. The darkness is real. The warmth under my palm is—
My eyes flutter open.
Darkness. The motel room. Jericho beneath me.
Jericho.
When did he switch from “Commander Allon” to Jericho?
Doesn’t matter. I’m sprawled across his chest, my hand on his bare stomach where his shirt has ridden up. My leg hooked over his hip. My mouth— Was I just kissing his throat?
This isn’t—
Was I—?
I know this is wrong. That pulling away would be the right thing to do…
But my hand slides higher on his chest before I can stop it. Fingers finding the hollow of his throat. Feeling his pulse hammer there.
He’s awake. Has to be awake with the way his breathing has gone shallow and careful, with the way every muscle in his body has gone taut beneath me.
My wolf surges.
Want. Need. Mine.
The heat flooding through me isn’t normal exhaustion haze. This is the heat cycle. Raw and demanding and completely beyond my control. It drowns out thought, drowns out guilt, drowns out everything except the bone-deep need to touch and taste and claim.
My hand slides into his hair.
He goes rigid beneath me.
I lean down and press my mouth to his.
The kiss is desperate, hungry, my tongue tracing the seam of his lips, demanding entry. He tastes like fire. Like danger. Like something that makes my wolf howl with satisfaction.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t kiss back. Doesn’t touch me. Just lies there frozen while I kiss him, his heart pounding against my chest, but his mouth still, his hands carefully not on me.
The lack of response makes my wolf snarl.
No. Want this. Need this. Make him—
I kiss him harder, deeper, my body moving against his, seeking that same friction from my dream. I can feel him beneath me through our clothes—his cock hard and thick, pressing against my center in a way that makes me gasp into his mouth. The drag of fabric between us is maddening.
Not enough. Need more. Need—
Still nothing from him.
He’s holding himself completely motionless. Like, if he doesn’t move, doesn’t respond, this isn’t happening. Like he can outlast my need through sheer stillness.
It makes my wolf furious.
I shift my weight, throwing my leg fully over his hips to straddle him properly. The new position puts us flush together, the hard length of him pressing directly against my pussy. Even through layers of fabric, I can feel every inch of him, thick and hot and straining against his pants.
He wants this as much as I do. He’s just holding back.
Why, dammit? Why??
I rock my hips. Slow. Deliberate. The grind sends heat spiraling through my belly, makes wetness flood between my thighs, makes me gasp against his mouth. A sound escapes him. Low. Strained. Almost pained. But his hands stay at his sides.
My wolf interprets this as rejection. As resistance that needs breaking.
I trail kisses down his jaw to his throat, feeling his pulse jump beneath my lips. My hands explore his chest, mapping the ridges of muscle, the valley of his sternum, the sharp edges of his hipbones where his pants sit low.
I rock against him again, harder this time. The ridge of his cock grinds against my clit through our clothes, and pleasure sparks sharp enough to make me moan against his throat.
He shudders beneath me. But still doesn’t touch me.
I kiss back up to his mouth, bite his lower lip hard enough to sting. “Touch me.”
“Nadia—” My name is barely a sound. Raw. Wrecked. “You’re not— This isn’t—”
“Touch me.” I rock against him, punctuating each word with movement. His cock drags against me, and I’m so wet I can feel it soaking through my pants, making everything slick and hot and incredible.
His whole body shudders. “You’ll— In the morning you’ll—”
“I don’t care about morning.” True. Right now, I don’t care about anything except the heat building between us, the need clawing through my veins, the way his cock feels pressed against me. “Touch me.”
His control breaks.
I feel it happen—the exact moment restraint snaps and instinct takes over. His hands find my hips and grip hard, fingers digging in through fabric. Not gentle. Not careful. Just need made physical.
Then he surges up, one hand in my hair, the other splayed across my lower back, and his mouth claims mine with a hunger that matches my own.
The kiss is brutal. Consuming. His tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that mimics what our bodies want, what we’re building toward with every rock and grind and press of flesh against flesh.
His hand in my hair tightens, angling my head exactly where he wants it. The control in that grip sends heat flooding through me. My wolf approves, wants his dominance, wants his surrender, wants everything.
I press down against his shaft, and his other hand on my hip guides the movement, shows me the angle he wants, the pressure that makes his breath catch and his fingers tighten and a groan tear from his throat into my mouth.
His cock is iron-hard beneath me, thick enough that even through layers of fabric I can feel how big he is. How much he wants this despite trying to resist. The knowledge sends power surging through me; I did this to him, my touch, my kiss, my body moving against his.
I rock harder, and his grip on my hip tightens almost to bruising. The pain edges into pleasure, makes me moan into his mouth, makes me writhe against him seeking more.
His mouth leaves mine to trail down my throat. Hot. Open-mouthed. His teeth scrape my pulse point, and I gasp, head falling back, exposing my neck. My hips never stop moving, rolling against him in a rhythm that’s pure instinct.
“God,” he groans against my throat, and his voice is more undone than I’ve ever heard it.
His hand slides from my hair down my spine, under the shirt—his shirt that I’m wearing—to find bare skin.
The contact of his palm against my back makes us both freeze for half a second.
Skin to skin. Heat to heat. Dragonfire responding to wolf heat in a way that makes the air between us shimmer.
Then his hand is moving, gliding up my spine, fingers tracing vertebrae.
His other hand leaves my hip to slide under the shirt too, both palms now against bare skin.
Exploring. Learning. One hand spans my ribs while the other traces the curve of my spine, and every touch makes me flex into him, makes sounds escape my throat that are more animal than human.
His mouth finds that spot where my neck meets my shoulder and bites down. Not hard enough to break skin but enough to make me cry out, enough to make my hips jerk against him in a movement that grinds his cock against my clit perfectly.
Pleasure spikes sharp and bright. I’m close to… something. Some edge I’m racing toward with every movement.
“Ohhhh…” I moan, the sound coming from deep in my throat.
He claims my mouth, swallowing the sound, and goes back to guiding my movement. Faster. Harder. The control in that touch, the way he’s directing exactly how I move against him, makes everything more intense. Makes the heat building in my belly coil tighter.
I can feel his cock twitch beneath me, feel the dampness where precum has soaked through fabric, feel how close he is to losing the last threads of control.
One hand slides around to my front. Under the shirt. Across my stomach. Higher.
His palm cups my breast, and I groan at the touch, desperate for more contact. His thumb finds my nipple and circles it, teases it, makes me whimper and rub harder against the thick length pressing between my thighs.
“Nadia.” My name is broken. Desperate. His mouth against my throat. “We need to— This is—”
“Don’t stop,” I gasp. I kiss him again, muffling whatever protest he was forming. “Please don’t stop.”
His hand on my breast tightens, and I moan into his mouth. His other hand grips my hip hard enough to leave marks and guides me into a rhythm that’s faster, harder, chasing the pleasure building between us.
I’m so wet I can feel it, slickness coating my thighs, soaking through fabric until there’s almost no barrier between us. Just the drag and grind and maddening friction of his cock against my clit.
His mouth moves to my ear. “If we don’t stop—” His voice is wrecked. “I can’t— I won’t be able to—”
“Good.” I rock against him harder. “Don’t.”
The hand on my breast slides lower. Over my ribs. My stomach. Down to where fabric bunches between us.
His fingers find the waistband of my pants. Slip beneath it, grazing over bare flesh to where no one has touched me in years. Where Chance—
Reality slams into me.
Not gradual. Not gentle. Just sudden, complete awareness of what I’m doing. Who I’m with. How far we’ve gone.
I’m straddling Jericho Allon. The man who killed my mate. And his hand is inside my pants, and I’m soaked for him and grinding against him like nothing else matters.