Chapter 14 - Mara #2
I should push him away. I should tell him I don’t want him, that he’s wrong, that I’m not some cliché omega who melts for the alpha.
I’m human; I have no wolf, but the inescapable truth is that I want this.
I want it so much it feels like an ache, a physical hunger behind my ribs.
I can’t remember the last time I let myself want anything, much less someone or something, like him.
I set the coffee mug down, careful not to break eye contact. “I don’t like running,” I say, and the words land heavily between us.
I expect him to pounce, but he doesn’t. Instead, he bends down so slowly that it gives the illusion that I could stop him at any point.
He brushes his lips against mine, barely more than a whisper of contact.
There’s no force, just the softest pressure; it’s so gentle I almost laugh, except my whole body is shuddering with the need to chase it, to press forward and take more.
I gasp, and he does it again, firmer this time, and I taste him, the bitter tang of coffee on his tongue, the warm exhale of his breath.
His hand comes up, rough palm cupping my cheek, thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
I feel tiny next to him, not fragile, but easily held, dwarfed by his body.
His fingers are warm and callused against my skin, and when he tilts my head to kiss me again, I can’t help the sound that escapes me.
It’s a low, involuntary whimper, raw and desperate.
My knees threaten to buckle, but he’s already bracing me with his body, caging me in.
I’m not sure who moves first, but the next second his hands are on my hips, fingers digging into denim, hauling me forward so my back arches off the countertop.
His mouth never leaves mine, not even when he lifts me effortlessly onto the cold stone.
My legs splay, and he’s standing between them, so close that I can feel the heat of him even through both our clothes, the outline of his cock already thick and hard, pressing against my thigh.
He kisses me until I’m dizzy, then trails his mouth down my jaw, along the column of my throat, biting at the skin just beneath my ear, his teeth impossibly sharp but deliberately gentle.
I’m panting now, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen, and he seems to relish it, pulling back just enough to watch my face as he undoes the button of my jeans, slow and intentional.
There’s no pretense here, no gentleness now, just hot and immediate need.
He yanks the zipper down and slides his hand inside, cupping me through the thin cotton of my underwear. I jerk at the contact, a full-body spasm, and he growls deeply against my neck. He presses in and rubs slow, lazy circles over the fabric until I’m gasping, clinging to his arms for leverage.
“Cade,” I say, or maybe just breathe it, because it comes out as a plea.
He’s grinning when he pulls back, his golden eyes gone dark, pupils blown wide. “You want this?” I nod, but that’s not enough for him. He leans in, lips at my ear, and says, “Tell me.” His voice is a command, not a question.
“I want you,” I say, louder than I intend, and it echoes in the empty kitchen.
“Good girl.” He’s on his knees then, dragging my jeans down past my hips in one swift motion, letting them bunch around my ankles.
My underwear goes next, the cool air hitting me, but I’m not cold because his hands are already on me; one at the back of my knee, the other cupping my ass, pulling me to the very edge of the counter.
He spreads me wide, and the first wave of hot breath on my core makes me shudder, and the first slow lick makes me cry out.
I grab at his head, fingers fisting in his hair, but he’s relentless, tongue working me over with a skill that borders on obscene.
There’s no slow build, no teasing, just a ruthless, hungry focus on my clit, sucking and flicking until I’m writhing, my knees trying to close around his broad shoulders.
I’m close, embarrassingly fast, the pressure unbearable, but he doesn’t let up, not even when I try to twist away, too sensitive.
His hands lock me in place, and he sucks my clit hard, sending me over the edge.
I scream as he fills me with one and then two fingers, dragging my orgasm out as he fucks me through it.
He doesn’t give me time to recover. The next thing I feel is the rough press of his palms on my waist, dragging me to the very edge.
He stands, so tall above me it’s disorienting, and rips open his fly with one hand, the other never leaving my thigh.
I watch, helpless, as he pulls his cock out, flushed and heavy, and for a brief, insane second, I panic at the sheer size of him.
But he sees it in my face, grins, and drags the head up and down my slit, slicking it with my own wetness.
He slides the tip just barely inside, not even an inch, and I’m already dizzy, my body clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.
“Please,” I gasp, and the sound of my own voice, naked and pleading, makes me blush. I always thought I’d be the fighter, the girl who’d never beg, but here I am, legs spread on a kitchen counter, begging a shifter to fuck me.
He doesn’t tease. He lines up, grabs my ass in both hands, and lifts me so my feet are dangling.
In one slow, inexorable thrust, he fills me, stretching me so wide I welcome the instant burn and then relief.
I dig my fingers into his shoulders, helpless under the assault of sensation, and when he bottoms out, I whimper, the sound high and broken.
The fullness is almost too much, but my body is greedy for it, my channel slick, accommodating, and already pulsing around him.
He sets a punishing pace from the beginning and fucks me hard, but never lets me fall, one arm always tight around my back, the other splayed possessively over my thigh.
I have never felt so tiny, so at the mercy of someone else’s strength, and yet so unafraid.
He watches my face, as if mapping every reaction, and when I bite my lip to keep from screaming, he growls and thrusts harder, until I do.
I come again, sudden and sharp, and this time he doesn’t even slow. He keeps going, fucking me through it, through the aftershocks, until I’m limp in his arms, sobbing his name into his neck. Then he slows, kisses the tears from my cheeks, and murmurs, “One more.”
I try to laugh, but it’s all breath. “You’re trying to kill me,” I manage, and he smiles, teeth sharp and wicked.
“Not kill,” he says, voice low and rough. “Just letting you know, I don’t give orgasms to prisoners.”
I can barely process his words as he lifts me off the counter and carries me, still impaled on his cock, to the hallway wall, pinning me there with his hips.
He fucks me slow and deep, mouth at my ear, whispering things that make my whole body shiver with want.
He’s so strong I don’t have to hold on at all; he does all the work, fucking me until the world narrows to just the stretch and the slide of him inside me.
The third orgasm is devastating. I shatter around him, nails digging bloody crescents into his back, and he finally lets himself go; he thrusts impossibly deep and holds me down on his cock as I feel him empty himself inside me with a growl.
When I look up, I see his fangs have descended, his eyes pure gold.
I should be afraid, seeing his wolf so close to the surface.
But I’m not; I’m far more afraid of my own feelings.