Chapter 9 #2
She pulled back to look at me. Her pupils were dilated. She licked her lips.
"Good," she said.
"Good?"
"I don't want you to stop," she said. "I want you to lose control, Stan. I want to see what happens when the Butcher takes what he wants."
That was it. The permission slip.
I stood up. The stool clattered to the floor behind me.
I grabbed her face in both hands and kissed her.
This wasn't like the library kiss. That was exploration. This was possession.
I devoured her. I tilted her head back, demanding access, my tongue sweeping into her mouth to claim every corner. She tasted like pizza and water and yes.
She wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling herself up, trying to climb me.
I hooked my arms under her thighs and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around my waist instinctively.
I carried her out of the kitchen.
I walked down the hall to my bedroom. It was dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside filtering through the blinds.
I didn't turn on the light. We didn't need it.
I walked to the bed and lowered her onto the mattress. She sank into the duvet, her hair fanning out like a halo.
I stood over her for a second, just looking. My beautiful, brave, foolish girl.
I stripped off my jeans. I kicked them aside. I was in my boxer briefs now.
I crawled onto the bed over her. I braced my arms on either side of her head, caging her.
"Last chance," I rasped. "Run away, Little Bit."
She reached up and grabbed the waistband of my boxers.
"Shut up and come here," she ordered.
I lowered my weight onto her. The feeling of her body under mine—soft, yielding, warm—was the best feeling in the world. Better than scoring a goal. Better than hitting someone.
I kissed her again, slower this time. I wanted to savor the slide.
My hands moved to the hem of her sweater.
"Off," I muttered against her mouth.
She sat up slightly, letting me pull the green sweater over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra.
I froze.
Her breasts were perfect. Pale, soft, tipped with pink nipples that were already hard from the cold air.
"Beautiful," I worshipped.
I lowered my head and took one nipple into my mouth.
She gasped, her back arching off the mattress. Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer.
"Stan," she moaned. "Oh my god."
I swirled my tongue around the nub, teasing it, before sucking hard. She whimpered.
I moved to the other one, giving it equal attention, while my hand moved to the button of her jeans.
Pop.
The sound was loud in the quiet room.
I unzipped the zipper. The sound—zzzzzip—was the sound of no return.
I slid my hand inside her jeans, over the silk of her panties. She was soaked. Again.
"You're always so wet for me," I growled approvingly, moving my hand against her slick heat.
"It's you," she panted, her hips bucking against my hand. "It's always been you."
I helped her shimmy out of the jeans. She kicked them off.
Now we were skin to skin.
I settled between her legs. The friction of my erection against her center—even through the cotton of my boxers and her panties—was maddening.
I ground down.
She cried out, a sharp, needy sound.
"Stan, please," she begged. "I need you. Inside."
"Not yet," I whispered. "I want to watch you first."
I sat back on my heels. I grabbed her ankles and pulled her down the bed until her hips were at the edge of the mattress. I stood up at the foot of the bed.
"What are you doing?" she asked, trying to cover herself.
"Don't cover," I commanded. "Let me see."
I gently pried her hands away. I spread her legs wide.
In the dim light, she was a vision. Exposed. Vulnerable. Trusting.
I dropped to my knees.
"Stan?"
"I'm going to taste you, Rachel," I said, my voice thick. "I'm going to taste every drop."
I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. Then another, higher. Then another.
She was trembling.
When I finally reached the center, I didn't hesitate. I buried my face in her.
She screamed my name.
I used my tongue flat and broad at first, licking her like she was ice cream. She tasted sweet, salty, musky. She tasted like home.
Then I found the little pearl. I flicked it.
Her hips jerked off the bed.
"Yes," I growled against her. "Like that."
I settled into a rhythm. Lick, suck, flick. Lick, suck, flick.
Her hands came down to grip my hair. She was thrashing.
"Stan! Stan, I'm gonna—"
"Do it," I ordered. "Come on my face, baby. Mark me."
I sucked hard.
She exploded.
Her orgasm was violent. Her thighs clamped around my head, crushing my ears (I didn't mind; I had a thick skull). She sobbed, her body convulsing in waves of pleasure.
I stayed there, drinking her in, until she went limp.
I pulled back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
I stood up.
She was lying there, wrecked, chest heaving, eyes glazed.
"You..." she whispered. "You ruined me."
"I'm just getting started," I promised.
I shucked off my boxers.
I was fully erect. My cock was heavy, pulsing, leaking pre-cum. It was large—shifter genetics again—and thick.
I climbed back onto the bed.
"Are you on the pill?" I asked. The question was vital. Shifters were fertile. Extremely fertile.
"Yes," she breathed. "Yes. Since I was sixteen for cramps."
"Good."
I positioned myself between her legs again. I kissed her deeply, sharing the taste of her own arousal.
"Look at me," I said.
She opened her eyes.
"I'm going to fill you," I said. "It might hurt at first. I'm big. And I'm... eager."
"I can take it," she challenged.
I guided myself to her entrance. I rubbed the head against her slick opening, teasing us both.
Then, slowly, I pushed inside.
Her walls were tight. So tight. They clamped around me, welcoming me, squeezing me.
"Oh, God," I groaned, throwing my head back. The sensation was blinding.
I pushed deeper. Inch by inch. Stretching her. Filling her.
When I was fully seated, hilt deep, I stopped.
We were connected. We were one.
I looked down at her. She was staring up at me with wonder.
"You fit," she whispered. "Perfectly."
"Like a puzzle piece," I agreed.
I started to move.
Slow at first. Long, deep strokes that hit her cervix. Then faster. Harder.
The bed frame creaked. The headboard banged against the wall.
The Wolf woke up.
The rhythm became primal. I wasn't making love anymore. I was claiming territory. I was mating.
I grabbed her hands and pinned them above her head. I drove into her, again and again, chasing my own release.
"Stan! Stan!"
She was close again. I could feel her tightening around me.
"Come for me," I growled. "Again. Do it."
She shattered for the second time.
And that was it. The clamp of her muscles around my cock was the trigger.
I let go.
I groaned, a long, animalistic roar, as I poured myself into her. I felt the pulse of my seed leaving me, filling her womb, seeking purchase.
I collapsed on top of her, crushing her into the mattress.
We lay there, tangled together, sweat drying on our skin, hearts beating in unison.
The room was silent again.
But it was a different kind of silence. It was the silence of a pact sealed in blood and sweat.
I rolled off her, pulling her into my side. She curled into me, resting her head on my chest.
"Wow," she whispered.
"Yeah," I agreed, stroking her hair. "Wow."
I closed my eyes.
I knew I should be worried. I knew I should be thinking about the Council, about the scout, about the risks.
But with her warm body pressed against mine, smelling like sex and vanilla, all I could think was:
Worth it.
Every single consequence. Worth it.