3. Lia #2
"Inside," he says. "My office."
"Please."
He pushes the door open behind him. He picks me up. Carries me through. Kicks the door shut with his heel. There's a leather couch against the far wall that looks well-loved. A desk. A lamp. He sets me down on the couch with my knees open, steps back, and finishes taking off his jeans.
I watch him.
He is a fully naked man stepping toward me and my brain is trying to hold all of him at once and failing. He kneels on the couch between my thighs. He leans over me. His weight comes down on his forearms next to my head and he stops.
"Look at me."
"I'm looking."
"I'm going to go slow."
"Okay."
"You're going to tell me if it's too much."
"Okay."
"Lia."
"Yes."
"You're perfect." He says it like a fact. "Every inch of you. You were made exactly right, and I want you to hear me say it because you're going to need to hear it every day for the rest of your life."
"Wes—"
"Say yes."
"Yes."
He positions himself.
The head of his cock presses to my entrance. I look down—I have to look, I can't not—and I see him pressed against me. Thick where I'm wet. His hand comes down and he holds himself at the base and he guides the tip through my slick, coating himself in how wet I am, and then he lines up.
"Slow," I say.
"Slow."
He pushes in.
He has not lied about slow. He opens me up by inches, each slow thrust deeper than the last. He watches my face the whole time. The flare of his head, the impossible width—I feel all of him—and I'm stretched wide around his cock and he hasn't even made it halfway. He stops. Strokes my hip.
"Breathe."
"I am—I am breathing—you're?—"
"I know. You're taking me so well." He pushes another inch and I gasp and grip his shoulders. "Good girl. That's it. Look at you."
"How much more?—?"
"Little more."
"Wes—"
"Feel me?"
"God."
"Keep breathing."
Another inch. Another. My body is adjusting around him, stretching, and the fullness is enormous and I can feel him everywhere. He seats home—I feel the press of his lower belly against mine, the whole of him inside me—and he stills.
"There you are." Forehead to mine, his voice gone rough. "There you are, sweetheart. You took all of me."
"All of you," I repeat. It comes out dazed.
"You're perfect. Look at you. Taking me like this was built for you."
"Wes, please move."
He moves.
It is slow at first—deep, deliberate, each stroke dragging out and pressing back in and opening me up again every single time.
His weight is on his forearms and his lips brush my temple and he's murmuring things into my ear I will never remember word-for-word but will remember the feeling of—good girl, perfect, you were made for me, I'm going to keep you full of me.
"Say it back."
"What?"
"Say you were made for me."
"I was made for you."
"Say you're mine."
"I'm yours."
"I'm going to put a baby in you, Lia." His voice is rough against my ear. His hips are finding a deeper rhythm. "Going to breed you. Going to keep you so full of me you'll forget what it felt like before. You want that?"
"Yes." It's a breath. "Yes, please?—"
"Say it."
"I want it. I want all of it."
He thrusts in. Slow, hard, deep. He builds the rhythm carefully and he opens me on every stroke and my orgasm starts climbing from somewhere I've never felt before, from deep in my belly, growing and growing.
"Wes—"
"I've got you."
"I'm going to?—"
"Good."
Something shifts.
At the base of him, deep inside me. A swelling. A thickening. He is getting bigger, somehow, the stretch of him growing wider, and I'm making a sound that's pure confusion and I'm clawing at his back.
"What—what is—Wes?—?"
"I've got you. Breathe." His weight comes down over me and his hand cups my jaw. "You're okay. Look at me. Look at my face."
"Wes, something's?—"
"I know. I should have warned you about this part.
" His forehead drops to mine. His voice is rough and unsteady and closer to an apology than I've ever heard it.
"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking that far ahead.
Listen to me. That thickness you feel at the base—that's the bear part of me.
It catches. It holds. And then we can't pull apart for a while. "
"Can't—pull?—"
"Tied. We're going to be tied. It's safe, it's still just me, but I'm not going anywhere and neither are you. Breathe."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"It's—the word for it?—"
"Knot." He kisses the corner of my mouth, once. Careful, even now. "It's called a knot. Say it back so I know you're with me."
"Knot." It comes out dazed. "Wes."
"I'm here."
The swelling grows. It catches against me—against my inner walls, wider than the rest of him—and I'm stretched open wider than I've ever been stretched and it's enormous and overwhelming and I'm not scared, I'm not scared, I'm just—full.
"I'm not locking us together if you don't want it," he says. "Tell me."
"I want it. Wes. I want you tied in me."
"Christ." It comes out of him ragged. "Say that again."
"Tie us."
The knot swells to full.
Catches.
Locks.
I come.
It is different—it rolls through me in a long heavy wave that doesn't stop, doesn't break, doesn't let me go.
I'm so full I can't tell where my pussy ends and his cock begins.
His hips thrust against mine—slow, deep, grinding, can't pull out.
Every small movement of him inside me pushes me further into the orgasm.
I'm shaking. Gasping his name. His hand is in my hair. He is coming with me.
"Lia—"
"Yes—"
"I'm—fuck—I'm coming, I'm filling you up?—"
"Yes."
His cock pulses inside me. Long hot pulses.
I feel every one—the release of him, filling me, nowhere for any of it to go because he's locked deep in my pussy and the knot is sealing it all in.
He ruts shallowly against me, can't go far, can only grind, and the shallow grinding against her wet heat makes me come again.
I come a second time on his knot.
I'm not exaggerating. It rolls into the first one and extends it, and I'm a woman who has had exactly one orgasm at a time her whole adult life, and Wes Maddox has taken the whole system apart in one night.
"Oh—" My voice breaks. "Oh—Wes?—"
"I know." He is breathing hard against my neck. "I'm here. I've got you, sweetheart. Stay with me."
We are locked.
I can't pull away from him. He can't pull away from me. His knot is thick and warm inside me and he's still pulsing slowly and his weight is heavy on me in a way that feels like an answer. His hand is in my hair. His forehead is against my temple. His mouth is at my ear.
"You took me so well," he murmurs. Low and wrecked. "So well, Lia. Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
"That's seven," I say. Dazed.
"What?"
"You've called me perfect seven times. I was counting."
"Hadn't finished."
"No?"
"No."
He kisses my jaw. My temple. The corner of my mouth.
"Perfect," he says.
"Eight."
"Perfect."
"Nine."
"We could be here for a while."
"How long is a while?"
"Twenty minutes, maybe. Half an hour."
"Half an?—"
"I'll keep you busy."
I laugh. I don't know why. I'm locked to a man I met forty-eight hours ago and I'm laughing because he has told me he will keep me busy, and he's so large inside me I can feel his heartbeat, and none of this is the kind of thing I have any frame of reference for.
"Busy how," I manage.
"Talk to you." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "Tell you things you haven't heard before. Make you come a few more times if you want. Whatever you need."
"I need," I say, "to understand what just happened to my body."
"I'll tell you everything."
"All of it."
"All of it. Every word."
He starts with the knot. He tells me what it is.
He tells me what he is. He tells me he's a brown bear shifter.
Tells me I am his mate. Tells me he recognized me the second I walked into his bar.
While he tells me all of this his hand is in my hair.
His knot is locked deep in me. He is still warm, still coming in small pulses.
I listen with my face against his chest. I believe him.
I believe every word.
I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
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