15 Kaia #4
The pleasure detonated white and total. My spine left the wall.
A sound tore out of me and the diesel roar took it.
His mouth didn’t waver. He worked me with his tongue in slow, rhythmic circles, building and releasing and building again, and each stroke was a wave with weight behind it—and between each one there was a shuddering suspension where every nerve in my body waited for the next.
He surfaced for one breath, his chin slick, his mouth swollen, and the words came out with no air left in them.
“You taste like I knew you would. Like something I’m never gonna get enough of.
” His lips grazed the inside of my thigh and I heard the low, desperate edge underneath the words, the edge that said he was doing this for me and it was also breaking him in half.
“I could live right here. I could die right here. Come for me. Right now. Do it.”
I moaned.
Real. The word was an anchor now, the only solid thing. Real. Here. Real. My hands flexed in the empty air, clawing for his hair.
He slid one thick finger into me and the scalding grip of my body around it cracked something loose from the foundations.
The stretch of it, the fullness, sent a deep low pulse through me that had nothing to do with fever and everything to do with want—the wolf’s want, the bone-deep mammal want, a hunger that lived past the chemistry and past the magic and in the oldest part of me.
“Fuck.” The word scraped out of him against my thigh, not for me, a man talking to himself about something he wasn’t prepared for.
“You feel incredible. You have no idea—” He pressed his forehead to my leg for one raw second, breathing, and then his hand curled and his mouth came back down and the sentence died unfinished.
He pressed deep, found the spot inside that made my spine go like a drawn bow, and he worked it in time with the flat sweep of his tongue, the two sensations braiding together into something new. The fever drained toward it like floodwater about to burst. Faster. Hotter. Gathering.
Gathering to a white point.
“That’s it.” He came up just far enough to breathe the words against my inner thigh, his jaw slick, his voice wrecked down to nothing.
“Give it to me. All of it. You’re so close, sweetheart.
I can feel it—give it to me right now, give me everything, I’m not going anywhere—” and his mouth dropped back down and his finger curled and found the precise place inside and pressed, and the engine screamed and the iron shook and he gave me no quarter at all.
I broke.
The climax tore up from the soles of my feet in a single devastating wave—not one crest but a series, each one higher than the last, rolling through me in hot radiating rings that turned my vision white and dissolved every wall I’d ever built in seconds.
The scream that came out of me was the first full-throated, uncalibrated, unqualified sound I had made since childhood, and the diesel ate it whole and gave nothing to the men in the cab.
My body clamped down around his finger in deep, rhythmic spasms, the pleasure coring through me in pulses that went all the way to my fingertips.
He drank it down. He held me through every shudder with his hands and his mouth and the absolute merciless refusal to stop until the fever had crested fully and poured out of me and grounded into him, into the shaking dark floor, into the shaking dark.
I came back to myself slumped in the harness, lungs heaving, every bone gone to water.
He rested his forehead against my bare thigh, and I looked down at the top of his bowed head, at the brutal tension still locked in his shoulders, the white-knuckled fist he’d driven against the floorboard, the rigid, agonized line of his jaw.
Still dressed. Still cuffed. Still shaking with everything his own wolf was screaming for and not taking.
A long moment passed. Then his mouth moved against my skin—not a kiss, barely even a touch—and what came out was quiet enough I almost lost it to the engine noise.
“When this is over.” His jaw worked. “When we get out of this. I’m going to take you somewhere with a real bed and a real door that locks.
And I’m going to do every single thing I thought about in that tent.
And you’re going to let me. And we’re going to take a very long time about it. ”
“Yes.” It was the only word I seemed to have in me. But I meant it with everything in me.
He’d saved my life and asked for nothing.
The fever was a banked ember now, drained, survivable. But the woman the Order built was gone, burned out of me on a shaking iron floor, and what stood up in the ash of her wanted things that had no place in any catechism.
A mate. A bond. A small ferocious life held in big hands. Something my mother, and my mother’s mother, and on and on, had never had.
The grade leveled. The tires found smooth road. White light began to bleed under the door seam, and Tommy lifted his head, and I reached for the woman I had to put back on before the locks released.
This time the mask felt like a weapon. Not a wall.