6. Wes #2
By Day Two I'm calmer in some places. She is learning which positions she likes.
I'm learning where she wants my mouth and for how long.
Her favorite, it turns out, is with my tongue on her clit and two of my fingers deep inside her, stroking the spot that detonates her, while I say her name into her skin.
I do this for her four times between sunrise and noon Day Two and she cries at the end of it because her body has given her more orgasms in thirty-six hours than it has in the last year and she doesn't know what to do with the surplus.
I know what to do. I pull her into me and hold her while she shakes. I tell her she's mine. I tell her she's good. I tell her I'm not going anywhere.
She shakes for a while. I hold her. I run my hand up and down her spine and don't try to fix it.
Then she lifts her head.
"Wes."
"Yeah."
"I need you again."
I look down at her. Her eyes are still wet. Her mouth is swollen. She's looking up at me with a steadiness that wasn't there two days ago—like her body has learned to trust what comes next.
"Yeah?"
"On my back this time. I want to see you."
I lay her down. I take my time—my mouth at her throat, her collarbone, the inside of her wrist. She lets me.
She stretches out under my hands like she's giving me the whole of herself.
I press my lips to the inside of her knee and she makes a sound I haven't heard before.
Softer. Like she's not holding anything back.
"Wes." Her fingers thread into my hair. "Come here."
I come up over her.
"Look at me," she says.
I look at her.
She's already wet for me, and when I push my cock into her pussy she keeps her eyes on my face—not flinching, not overwhelmed, just there.
I go slow. Slow because the rut's window is wide enough to let me.
Slow because this is the first time in two days she's looked at me like this—like she's choosing it, not just needing it.
"Wes."
"Yeah."
"You're not going anywhere."
"No."
"Say it."
"I'm not going anywhere. You've got me. Every morning. Every?—"
She pulls me down and kisses me. Hard. Her legs wrap around my waist and her hips tilt up into mine and I lose slow entirely.
I give her what she wants. Deep and steady, her hands in my hair, both of us breathing into each other's mouths.
She comes twice before I knot—the first quiet, her face pressed to my shoulder; the second louder, her back arching off the bed.
When the knot swells and catches she makes a sound of pure recognition. Like she was waiting.
"Hi," she says, dazed, into my chest.
"Hi."
We lock together. Her heartbeat slows against mine. I keep my hand in her hair.
"Day Two," she says.
"Yeah."
"This is different."
"Yeah. It'll keep changing."
"Good."
She closes her eyes. I watch her breathe.
By Day Two evening I've told her about my life.
Not during sex. During a break—there are breaks, the rut has windows, small quiet pockets where I can feed her and talk to her and sit with her leaned back into me on the couch.
I've told her about my parents. About growing up in this apartment above this bar.
About all those years alone, waiting for something I didn't know how to name.
She tells me about her mother in Colorado and her sister in Phoenix. She tells me she wants to call them about me and doesn't know what to say and I tell her we have time to figure out what to say.
She tells me she's staying.
She tells me on the couch at nine p.m. Sunday night with my arm around her shoulders and her head on my chest, and she says it like a fact.
"I'm staying, Wes."
"I know."
"I'm calling my sister tomorrow."
"Okay."
"I'm going to tell her I met someone. That's—that's what I'm going to say. I met someone. Because I can't explain any of the rest of it yet."
"That's fine."
"Wes."
"Yeah."
"I want the mark."
I go very still.
Not frozen-still—warm-still. The bear hears her. The man hears her. I turn my head to look at her.
"You know what it is."
"Yes."
"You know it's permanent."
"Yes."
"I will not give it to you tonight," I say.
"I want to. The bear is going to argue with me about this.
But I am not giving it to you in the middle of the rut.
I want you awake for it. I want you clear-eyed and sober-headed and not dizzy because I have just had you for eight hours.
If you still want it tomorrow—rut's easing by then, I can feel it—we do it.
Daylight. Deliberate. You in front of the window looking at me. "
"Tomorrow."
"If you still want it."
"I'm going to still want it."
"Then tomorrow."
She is quiet for a while. She puts her hand over mine where it's resting on her stomach.
"Wes."
"Yeah."
"You're—you know you could have just bitten me."
"I know."
"Most men would have."
"I'm not most men."
"Wes—"
"The bear knows he has you. I know I have you. I don't need to do it unless you want it the way I want it."
"The way you want it."
"I want you to say yes with your whole mouth. Awake. Looking at me."
She turns her face into my chest.
She is crying a little. Quietly. Her hand squeezes mine and I don't say anything. I just hold her.
I've had her six times today. I have the rut howling behind my eyes and another round easily under my skin and I'm not going to do anything about either of those things right now because my woman is crying into my shirt and the man I'm going to be for her, for the rest of our lives, is the one who knows the difference between a want and a need.
"Okay," she says eventually. Against my shirt.
"Okay."
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."
"Wes."
"Yeah."
"Take me to bed."
I take her to bed.
I have her once more, slow this time, the slowest I've had her in forty-eight hours. I keep her close. I keep her pinned. I knot her and fill her and hold her locked while she sleeps, and I stay awake through the whole of it watching her face in the dark.
Tomorrow, I think.
The bear hums, low and content, inside my chest.
Tomorrow.
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