Chapter 21 Where There’s Flint, There’s Fire
Jaxon
The moment the bond snaps into place, I know.
I feel it in the marrow of my bones, in the pull beneath my skin, in the hush that finally quiets the seething uneasiness within me.
There is no lightning strike. No exploding fireworks. No ball drop. Just rightness. Just the knowing. Just the steady, golden warmth that starts in my chest and bleeds into every corner of my mind and my heart and my soul, until there’s nowhere left that doesn’t hum with the feeling of him.
Flint.
It’s him. It’s always been him.
And if this—this—is what Grace feels with Hudson, if the mating bond gave her even a fraction of these flames, of this bone-deep peace and certainty wrapped in a wildfire of longing, then I don’t know how she held out as long as she did.
I don’t know how she slept. How she breathed. How she existed without him.
Because I would do anything for Flint. I would move mountains. I would tear down cities. I would stand between him and the world and never flinch. I would turn anyone who hurt him to cinders and kiss the ashes off his skin. Then I would make sure they never rose again.
And all of that, all of it, still isn’t enough to show him how much I love him. How much I need him.
But Flint knows. He always knows, maybe because he feels the same way about me.
“I love you,” he whispers as he leans his head back even farther, baring his throat to me without a second of uncertainty. Complete surrender.
The same surrender I feel deep inside of me.
I don’t make him wait. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.
I move my hand to his throat, spend a few seconds brushing his soft curls behind his ear as I savor the strong, powerful feel of his body against mine.
I bury my nose in the bend where his neck meets his shoulder, spend a few seconds breathing the dark spice and sandalwood scent of him deep into my bones. He moves against me then, his hands roaming restlessly up and down my back as his body arches into mine.
I reward him with a gentle scrape of my teeth down his throat, down that strong, sexy line where pulse meets vulnerability. And am rewarded when his hands fist in my shirt and a low whine comes from deep inside him.
“I love you,” I whisper as I kiss my way over his skin, relishing the thrum of his heartbeat beneath my lips.
“I love you, too,” he gasps out even as he arches more fully against me. “Jaxon. Please. Please.”
And as his hands slide up to tangle in my hair, as his whole body bows up in invitation, I know this isn’t just instinct. It isn’t just power. It’s Flint and me and the magic we make together.
The thought sparks the need deep inside me, has me throwing off the shackles of control and diving straight into Flint.
I strike with a hiss, my fangs going deep and sure.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just lets out a shaky breath that lands against my collarbone, one hand twisting in my shirt like I’m his only anchor in the maelstrom of pleasure and emotion that sweeps over the both of us.
I do the same, my fists grabbing onto the back of his shirt as I anchor myself to him. And drink and drink and drink.
His blood is…everything. It’s fire and starlight and home. My home. It’s nothing as mild as power, nothing as soft as heat. It’s us. It’s him and me and the bond that turns us into one. The bond that stretches between us forever.
My hands fumble with his shirt.
His fingers dance along the waistband of my jeans.
My heart shudders in my chest.
His body trembles as he wraps himself around me.
Emotions rush through me—want, need, love, desire, mine. Every emotion a beat of his heart, every promise a beat of mine until there’s nothing left. No pretense. No fear. No doubt. No past, no future. Nothing but this one perfect moment that’s taken years, centuries, lifetimes to finally achieve.
Flint wrapped around me.
Me wrapped around Flint.
And the world spinning by in a kaleidoscope of color and need and joy. So much joy.
I draw back slowly, gently sealing the wound with my tongue. I meet his gaze, a little scared of what I’ll find there, but he’s still looking at me with eyes that say everything that I feel inside.
And when he touches me, when his fingers skim through my hair and over my skin, it feels like an unveiling. Every brush of his hands over my chest, every press of his lips against my neck, my collarbone, my jaw—they all say I see you. I choose you. And, finally—finally—I let myself believe it.
The rest of our clothes vanish in the slow, lingering sweep of fingers dancing over rib cages and mouths sliding over spines. The movements of two people who have lost each other too many times and are finally choosing not to let go.
His body moves over mine like I’m a map he’s always known, like my angles and planes have been carved into his soul forever. And maybe they have—God knows, his are written so deeply inside me that I’ll see them for eternity.
And when we finally—finally—come together, it’s not just about heat. Not just about need.
It’s about belonging. About coming home to a place where there is no beginning. No ending. Where there is no him. No me. Only us and the wild, beautiful life we’re going to build together.