THIRTY-EIGHT #3
“Poor thing,” she croons almost mockingly.
“Don’t pity the knot.”
Her mouth twitches, then she asks, “Can I?”
“Can you what?”
Her hand slides slower, stopping at my belt. My brain leaves through the nearest window when she answers with a single word. “Touch?”
I swallow. Hard. Then answer, “Yeah.”
She cups me through the fabric, and the sound that leaves me is one I won’t be admitting to later under any kind of circumstance.
Dakota’s eyes light up. She presses her palm against me, slow and testing, and my head falls back against the wall.
“Bedroom,” she whispers then.
I blink. “Now?”
She raises her eyebrow at me again. “I’m not doing this in the Christmas Depression cupboard.”
I glance around, then back at her. “Fair.”
She scrambles off my lap a second later, but her hand catches mine immediately, tugging me up. Her bad knee wobbles once, but I steady her by the elbow and nothing more, that is until she leans into me on purpose.
The walk to my room should be impossible. It’s ten doors and a corner away, and it practically feels like crossing several countries with a lit match cupped in both of my hands.
Inside, I shut the door and lock it. Then I pause with my hand still on the latch. “This lock can open. You say it, I open it. You say stop, I stop. You say bite, I bite. You say no bite, there won’t be a bite.”
Dakota stands close to the bed, her hair still tucked under her hat and mouth swollen from my kisses, and her eyes bright enough to light the room. “And if I say come here?”
I’m across the room so fast I’ll be embarrassed about it later, and only because she smiles the moment I do. That’s just not good for my ego, but it’s fucking great for everything else.
She removes her hat herself and sets it on the small table next to the bed.
Not thrown, not clenched, but placed. My chest aches at the sight of it, but then she pulls a tie from her hair and white-blond strands fall in rivers over her shoulders, catching the dim light like something the ruined world has no right to still make.
I forget how to be funny and Dakota sees.
For once, she doesn’t punish the softness. She only steps close and wraps my headphones around her neck, quietly muttering, “Music.”
So I start it again, low and steady, and then she kisses me.
We make it to the bed in frantic pieces. Boots are kicked off, belts are undone, and fabric is dragged away between kisses and curses and Dakota threatening to stab my trouser button if it keeps “being a little bitch.”
“Don’t stab my button,” I plead lightly.
“Then tell it to stop fighting me,” she demands.
“It’s really doing its best.”
“So am I.”
“Fair enough. Button’s on its own.”
That earns me a breathless little laugh before she finally gets the fabric open and looks way too pleased with herself. Then her hands are on me properly, skin to skin, no material between us.
I hiss through my teeth as she wraps her fingers around me, bold and a little clumsy, learning me by touch. Her grip tightens when she sees what it does to my face, and the cheeky little shit asks, “Like that?”
“Tiny Terror, if you even dare start fishing for praise right now, I will give you way too much of it,” I warn, even though I’m not really sure that can be considered a warning.
“Good,” she breathes.
“Dangerous word.”
Her thumb strokes over the head of me, spreading the wetness there, and every thought I have suddenly turns to smoke. It takes a whole lot of effort, but I manage to catch her wrist gently before my knees do something embarrassing.
“My turn,” I say.
She opens her mouth, but I kiss her before whatever insult she was about to sling at me leaves her mouth, tugging her shirt up.
This time, she lets it come off. Then the underlayer.
And then there she is in the low light, pale patches of skin scattered over olive skin, scars and bruises and strength, every inch of her telling a tale of a survivor.
I breathe out harshly before rasping, “You’re wildly distracting.”
“That all you got?” she asks, her mouth twitching now.
“No,” I answer. “But I’m trying not to scare you away with the whole list.”
“Chicken.”
“Damn straight.”
That makes her smile. A real one. Small, but fucking real, and I can’t help but lower my mouth to her throat. Not against the claiming spot. Not yet. I kiss below her jaw as I lead her to the bed, laying her down before reaching her collarbone, then the slope of her breast.
Her breath catches when my tongue circles her nipple, and I draw it into my mouth, sucking gently at first and then harder when her hand fists in my hair.
“There?” I murmur.
“Yeah,” she breathes.
I do it again, and she arches toward me, wild honey flooding the room so strongly my Alpha almost climbs right out of my skin. I move lower with my hands on her hips, tasting her skin, her stomach, and every shaky breath she lets me have.
When I reach the waistband of her trousers, I look up. “Can I?”
Her face flushes beautifully as she answers, “Yeah.”
I strip her slowly, because rushing feels like letting panic win. Trousers down. Underwear after. And then my mouth goes completely dry at the sight of her, slick and swollen and trembling.
Dakota’s knees press together despite her injury, and I catch one gently. “No hiding from me now.”
“I’m naked.”
“I did notice, yeah,” I tell her. “I’m doing pretty well with it, too.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m being so brave right now.”
“You’re an idiot,” she breathes, less bite and more heat in her words.
“You’re not wrong,” I tell her, and she laughs once, shaky and embarrassed.
Good. That’s better.
I kiss the inside of her knee, then higher along her thigh. She goes still and whispers, “Ewan.”
I pause. “Too much?”
“No,” she says, her fingers curling into the sheet. “Just... talk.”
Right. Voice. Grounding.
I kiss her thigh again. “You’re in my room. Door’s locked. Music’s on. Headphones are around your neck. Your hat’s on the table and you have a knife under the pillow because you’re both terrifying and prepared.”
Her eyes flick to the pillow.
I grin against her thigh. “Yeah, I saw that.”
“Keep talking.”
I kiss even higher, my lips brushing her skin as I continue. “You smell like wild honey and rain, and it’s ruining my life in the most diabolical way.”
Her breath stutters.
“Still here?” I ask.
“Still here.”
“Good girl.”
That gets a jolt out of her, and I stop instantly. “No?”
Her eyes are wide. Then, slowly, she breathes, “Again.”
My grip tightens on her thigh.
Bloody fucking hell.
“Good girl,” I repeat, lower this time.
Her scent flares so hard my mouth waters, so I put it on her. Dakota’s entire body jerks, so I hold her hips gently but firmly enough to keep her with me. Not trapped, just anchored.
My tongue moves slow at first, learning what makes her breath catch, what makes her thighs tremble, and what makes her hand fly to my hair and pull. She tastes sweet and salty and full of heat, Omega slick wet on my tongue, and the first real moan she gifts me damn near fucking wrecks me.
“There,” she says, voice breaking. “There.”
I stay there. Of course I do. I use my fingers too, one first, sliding into the hot, tight grip of her body while my mouth continues to work her swollen clit. Her back bows, and her hand tugs hard on my hair.
“Ewan.”
I hum against her and she curses beautifully. I add another finger when she asks for more, slow and careful, curling them until she makes a sexy little sound that punches a hole right through me. I keep my other hand on her stomach, thumb stroking and grounding.
“Breathe, Tiny Terror.”
“I am.”
“You’re panting like you just chased a sheep uphill.”
Her laugh blends into a moan. “You chase a lot of sheep?”
“I’m Welsh,” I tell her. “We don’t share national secrets during oral sex.”
Her hips jerk, and then the greedy Omega gasps before demanding, “Again.”
“The goat joke or my tongue?” I ask.
“Don’t make me answer that.”
I grin against her and give her what she wants. It doesn’t take much before she comes with a sharp, startled cry, body clenching tightly around my fingers and slick flooding hot over my hand.
I keep her there through it, softer now, easing her down with my voice. “There you go. Breathe. Good girl. I’ve got you.”
When she finally opens her eyes, they’re dazed and furious. “You look so smug right now.”
“I am very smug,” I confirm.
“I hate you.”
“Nah, you don’t.”
“No,” she says, her voice turning rough. “I don’t.”
And that truth lands between us, warm and dangerous.
I crawl back up her body, kissing her stomach, her breasts, her throat, her mouth. She tastes herself on me and makes a sound low in her chest. My trousers are gone after that. I don’t even know how we manage it.
Maybe teamwork.
Possibly violence.
When I finally get her under me, she pushes at my chest immediately. “Not like this.”
I stop. “Tell me.”
Her cheeks flush, but her voice stays steady when she says, “I want to move. I want to see you. I want to be able to get up if my brain gets all stupid.”
I’m rolling onto my back so fast I get dizzy with it. Dakota only stares, so I spread my hands and declare, “Your throne, Tiny Terror.”
Her laugh comes out shocked and breathless. “You’re calling yourself furniture now?”
“For you?” I say. “Absolutely. High-quality furniture built from the Valleys. A little damaged, but made with excellent support.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she pants, a sparkle in those pale eyes.
“Yet, you’re climbing on anyway.”
She does.
She takes me into her hand again and strokes me once, twice, watching my face the whole time like she’s memorizing every crack in my control.
I catch her wrist gently before breathlessly saying, “Protection.”
Her eyes come up to mine and, for one horrible second, I think I might have snapped the thread between us. But then she nods and mutters, “Yeah. Protection.”
I reach for the packet on the bedside with mostly steady hands, and Dakota watches the whole time.
“Very smooth,” she says.
“I’m actually doing my very best under hostile conditions,” I inform her.
“I’m hostile conditions?”