Chapter 6
Knife woke before dawn with Tuesday curled against his chest, her breathing slow and even, the faint scent of last night’s intense scene still clinging to her skin.
His hand rested on the curve of her hip — the same hip he’d nearly destroyed the night before, and the inflammation throbbed under her skin like a live wire.
It’d likely healed a little while she slept, but the heat under the skin told him it would be stiff, swollen, and still devastatingly damaged.
He rolled her gently onto her back, careful not to wake her fully. She stirred, a soft sound escaping her throat, but her eyes stayed closed. Good. He wanted that hazy half-asleep state for the first few strokes.
He slid between her thighs, hooked her left knee over his forearm while leaving the right one alone for the moment, and positioned his cockhead at her slit. He smiled when her body instinctively softened, like her wolf recognized who was touching her.
A single thrust, and he was inside her heat, her cunt gripping him hard as her eyes flew open with a gasp.
Startled surprise first, then heat flooded her gaze as she registered exactly how deep he was.
His inner sadist needed more, so he slid her right leg over his forearm and lifted it high and wide, opening her completely.
The position pulled the inflamed joint exactly the way he knew it would hurt the most, and she sucked in a sharp breath, eyelids flaring, pupils blowing wide.
Knife held her stare, never breaking eye contact as he began to move with long, deliberate strokes that dragged over every oversensitive inch inside her.
He held both legs high while forcing them wide apart, and she held her breath, fighting the pain. Every thrust made the inflammation flare hotter. He could see it in every flinch, every shudder. He could feel it in the way she tried to push her legs lower, the way she fought his hold.
Then something shifted. She breathed through it instead of holding her breath, and she stopped fighting him with her legs.
Arousal bloomed thick in her scent, threading through the sharp edge of pain until the two were wound so tight he couldn’t tell which was driving her anymore.
Her hips tilted up to meet him, chasing the very motion that hurt, and he could only marvel at her ability to turn this kind of pain into pleasure without his fingers on her clit, or instructions — orders — to relax and accept it.
He had no idea if the pain had pushed her over the edge, or his dominance, or maybe the way he held her down and took what he wanted without asking, but he kept the pace slow, almost lazy, his gaze locked on hers while he fucked her deep and steady.
The room was quiet except for the wet sounds of movement, their heartbeats, and the soft, broken noises coming from her.
She gripped his shoulders, strong fingers curling, nails digging in, but she wasn’t trying to push him away. No, she was holding on, riding the wave of hurt and ecstasy.
Gradually, he went faster, letting the pace build organically until he was driving into her, pistoning in and out, still holding the leg where it would hurt the most, using the damage like a lever to keep her right on the edge of too much.
“Come for me, little wolf.”
She shattered on the command, back arching, a raw cry tearing out of her throat. Her walls clamped down on him in rhythmic, desperate pulses, milking him so perfectly it dragged his own orgasm up from the center of his balls like a freight train.
Another dozen punishing drives into her, and he buried himself to the hilt and let it take him.
The release went through him like a jackhammer.
Pleasure slammed through every nerve, white and blinding, emptying him in thick, endless pulses.
He growled low and savage, hips grinding deep as he poured into her — hot, heavy spurts that kept coming, wave after wave until his vision tunneled and his balls ached with the force of it.
He gave her everything, every drop, every last bit of the tension he’d been carrying since the moment she’d walked into his shop.
His wolf howled inside him, triumphant and possessive, drinking down the mingled scent of her pain and pleasure like it was the finest thing he’d ever tasted.
When the last shudder finally left him, he stayed buried deep, breathing hard, forehead pressed to hers. Her eyes were glassy, cheeks wet, body still trembling around him.
Then he caught the sharp spike of fresh pain rolling off her, obliterating all pleasure, and he pulled out and ordered, “Change.” His voice was rough, but he swallowed and added, “Now. Let her out.”
He rolled to the side, and she didn’t hesitate, the magic sparking and igniting with a speed he rarely saw, so she was nearly instantly fur and paws, muzzle and teeth, and she was gorgeous.
Paler than most grey wolves, her face and forelegs more off-white than grey, with dark charcoal ears, along with darker patches and stripes along her back.
Her snout was nearly white, with a black button nose.
The early morning light lit her guard hairs so they nearly sparkled, and he thought her wolf was just as beautiful as the human.
She blinked up at him, golden eyes still hazy with aftershocks, then pushed her muzzle against his chest and headbutted him once, hard, like she was claiming him right back.
A low, satisfied rumble vibrated through her ribs.
She rubbed her cheek along his jaw, then his throat, scent-marking him with deliberate, possessive strokes.
Knife’s wolf surged forward, not to shift but to meet her, pressing against the inside of his skin with a hunger that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with recognition.
He buried his fingers in her thick ruff, scratching behind her ears exactly the way he knew her wolf would like, and she melted against him with a contented chuff before she headbutted him again, hard, and then scent-marked all over him, her face hard and ruthless against his human skin.
And his own wolf reveled in the fact she wanted to claim him, while the human man knew they couldn’t keep each other.
Fuck. He hadn’t asked her about breakfast. Was she strong enough to go back to human and eat, or should he give her some raw venison from his fridge?
“You want deer meat?” he asked the wolf, “or shall we sit at a table and eat omelets and crisp bacon like civilized people?”
- - - ? - - -
Tuesday’s wolf understood the question and let Tuesday decide.
And really, there wasn’t a decision to make. She wanted omelets and deer steaks, so she flashed back to human, pushed him to his back, and slung a leg over his body so she sat on him and looked down on him.
“I’ll make the omelets while you handle some venison steaks. Seared and rare.”
He grinned. “Woman after my heart. You’re probably starving, but I need a quick shower. Go on down and get started, and I’ll just be a few minutes behind.”
She was absolutely starving. Two changes back-to-back left her beyond famished, and conveniently meant she didn’t need a shower.
“Yeah. That works. What do you want in your omelet?”
He grinned. “Surprise me. I have onions, mushrooms, spinach, broccoli, bacon, sausage. If I have it, I like it, so you figure out what to put in them, Miss Fancy Foodist.”
It took a second for her mind to clock the title, and her wolf chuffed inside her, charmed all over again.
She opened his closet door and reached for a black shirt, but then saw the Rolling Thunder MC logo, and her stomach fell to her feet.
What the fuck was she doing? A biker was a fun excursion, not a romantic possibility.
How many times had her mother pointed out there are men you fuck for fun and adventure, and men you marry, and they are rarely the same person.
She found a deep green shirt with a Caterpillar logo, and it came to her mid-thigh. She had leggings and a shirt in her car, and she’d put them on before she left, but this would work for breakfast.
She found the eggs without having to look twice — commercial refrigerator, organized the way his knife displays were, everything exactly where it should be.
Same with the cast-iron pan, hanging on a hook beside the stove.
She pulled the second-largest one down, set it on the gas burner, and started pulling ingredients.
By the time Knife made it downstairs wearing jeans and no shirt, barefoot and sexier than sin, she’d cooked bacon while she chopped the mushrooms, onions, and broccoli, and had the cheese grated in a neat little pile.
She was whisking eggs while the onions sautéed in some bacon grease, and his smile told her he took it all in within seconds — including the fact she had the indoor grill preheated.
“I adore efficiency,” he said, lifting the venison she’d sliced into steaks. “Even when you do my job for me.” He considered them a second. “Clearly, you know what you’re doing there, too.”
Her wolf lifted its head and took a long, satisfied breath.
Stop it, she told the bitch, but her wolf ignored her.
He got to work on the steaks, searing them before they went on the grill, while she made the omelets.
She’d made coffee earlier, and he poured it while the steaks cooked — exactly the way she liked it, and she narrowed her eyes at him.
“How did you know?”
“I didn’t put it together until you told me your grandmother is June. Turns out, she’s talked about her favorite granddaughter quite a lot. Including how she likes her coffee with more milk than coffee, but not near sweet enough.”
He settled onto the stool across from her with a grin. “I have an excellent memory.”
She filed that away and focused on her omelet while she considered the fact her grandmother liked him enough to share personal tidbits.
Because if her grandmother didn’t like you, she didn’t share much of anything. How much she talked was directly proportional to what she thought of you, and the woman was an uncannily accurate barometer.
Tuesday wasn’t sure if that made this better or worse.
He moaned in pleasure before saying, “Perfect omelet, and that’s damned hard to do with five eggs. No idea how you managed to stuff it so full, but shit, you’re good.”
“Right back atcha with the steaks. Perfectly seared, perfectly rare, about the temperature of a panicked deer you chase a hundred yards before you manage to bring it down.”
They ate in the kind of easy silence that didn’t need filling. Outside, the surrounding forest was suffused with early light coming through the trees, and she could see the valley below through the kitchen window, distant and soft in the morning mist.
“What does your weekend look like?” he asked eventually.
“I finish my brother’s Wellington today. Family lunch Sunday.” She considered. “You?”
“I usually head to the MC’s compound Friday evening.
Made an exception last night.” He took a long drink of coffee.
“I’m working long shifts at the restaurant this weekend to help with the Valentine’s Day rush.
Off Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday-day. We bring cattle down late Wednesday so we can get started with the slaughter first thing Thursday.
Long two days of work, and then I head to the compound Friday evening, usually stay until Sunday night. ”
He took another bite of his omelet, and she understood he was laying out his life. His schedule, his brothers, and the fact they owned his weekends. No pretense.
She respected that more than she wanted to.
“Monday?” she asked, because she was apparently incapable of self-preservation.
Something shifted in his expression, subtle but there. “Open.” He set his coffee down. “Mondays and Tuesdays are almost always entirely mine.”
She looked at her plate and then back at him, thinking he’d kind of said “Tuesday is almost entirely mine,” and wished that might actually be the case.
But he’d been talking about the day of the week and not her, of course, and she was being ridiculous.
“As it turns out, I’m free Monday, and I think we can do away with the whole ‘bondage I can escape from’ thing.”
He studied her a moment with that unhurried assessment she was starting to recognize as his version of saying something he wasn’t going to state with words.
“I’m honored,” he finally said. “Thank you for the trust. Any chance I can convince you to give me a twelve-hour scene? Extended stress suspension? Say, noon until midnight? Or ten until ten, if you’ll need to wake early Tuesday.”
Want and need hit her out of the blue like a sledgehammer, and she knew he’d scent every bit of it.
No way to hide it, so she shrugged and grinned.
“I feel like I should negotiate it down to eight hours, but what the hell? We’ll go with twelve and see what happens.
I can be here at ten that morning. Will you feed me during the twelve hours?
Should I eat beforehand, or should we eat together before we start? ”
“I’ll make French toast with bacon and sausage on the side, plenty of carbs and protein,” he said. “We’ll eat breakfast first, and time won’t start until we head upstairs. I’ll give you juice and electrolytes throughout the day, but no food.”
She finished her omelet and decided not to think about what she’d just agreed to, because the elephant in the room was getting louder — not only were they not slowing whatever this was down, they’d just turned the volume up.