Chapter 8 #2
I break the kiss only long enough to lift her. "Bedroom," I manage, and she nods, her fingers already working at the buttons of my shirt.
"Yes," she breathes against my mouth, and that single word of consent snaps the last thread of my restraint.
My body moves before conscious thought catches up.
I sweep her legs out from under her, one arm banding around her waist, the other cradling her head against my chest. Her startled laugh vibrates against my sternum as I stride through the doorway, down the hall, reflexes carrying me faster than most humans could track.
The world blurs at the edges—furniture, doorways, shadows—but she stays in perfect focus.
The weight of her in my arms. The vanilla scent of her hair.
The rapid flutter of her pulse against my palm.
My bedroom door hits the wall and then slams shut with a bang I'll regret later. Right now, nothing matters except getting her to the bed, getting these clothes off, claiming what's mine.
I lower her to the mattress, and the wolf snarls at me to just take, to pin her down and mark her now.
But my hands shake as I ease her onto the navy sheets, as I bracket her body with my arms, hovering over her instead of crushing her beneath my weight.
Gentle. I need to be gentle, even though every muscle in my body is locked tight with the effort of holding back, even though my breathing is ragged and my control is hanging by a thread.
"Last chance," I tell her, even as my hands find the hem of her shirt. "Tell me to stop and I will."
Her eyes meet mine without hesitation. "Don't you dare stop."
Her shirt catches on her raised arms as I peel it away, revealing pale skin and the rapid rise and fall of her chest. I toss it aside, not caring where it lands.
My own follows, and her eyes track the movement, pupils blown wide as she takes in bare shoulders, the muscles of my chest and abdomen, the clear evidence that I'm not quite human—too defined, too powerful, built for violence even when I'm trying to be gentle.
Her jeans resist, the denim stubborn until she lifts her hips to help me slide them down her legs. The scrap of lace underneath follows. My own jeans hit the floor somewhere behind me, kicked away without thought.
And then there's just skin. Miles of it. Soft where I'm hard, curves where I'm angles, warmth that calls to every predatory instinct I possess.
I press my lips to the sharp edge of her collarbone, let my teeth drag across the delicate bone. Her skin tastes like salt and vanilla and something uniquely her. The gasp that tears from her throat vibrates against my mouth, and I chase it lower.
The hollow of her throat, where her pulse hammers wild and fast. My tongue traces the frantic rhythm before I move on. Down to the swell of her breast, soft and perfect in my hands.
My canines lengthen—just slightly, just enough. I drag the sharp points across the sensitive curve, a whisper of pressure that could so easily break skin. The twin points leave faint white lines on her flesh that fade to pink almost instantly.
Her body goes rigid beneath me. Every muscle locks. Her breath stops.
Then she arches up, pushing her breast harder against my mouth, chasing the threat of fang like it's a promise instead of a warning. A broken sound escapes her—half moan, half plea—and her nails score down my spine hard enough that I feel skin split.
She arches up into it.
Her nails rake down my back, gouging deep enough that I smell blood—my blood—and a growl rumbles through my chest at the sharp, sweet pain of it. Her fingers dig into my shoulders with bruising force, holding on like she's afraid I'll pull away.
Not a chance in hell.
Through the bond, I feel her desire spike, feel her wonder at what's happening between us.
"Declan." My name is a gasp, a plea, a demand all at once.
"I know, sweetheart. I know." I worship my way down her body, learning every sound she makes, every place that makes her breath catch. When I settle between her thighs, her hands fist in my hair, the sharp sting dragging a growl from my throat.
"Please," she breathes, and who am I to deny my mate?
I settle between her thighs, and her hands immediately fist in my hair. The sharp sting as she pulls sends heat straight down my spine.
The wolf demands I hurry, demands I take and claim and mark. I ignore it.
My tongue traces slow circles, learning the map of her. When I find the spot that makes her hips buck off the bed, I stay there, working it with deliberate patience until her thighs start trembling against my shoulders. She tastes like salt and heat and mine, and I can't get enough.
"Declan...” My name breaks on a gasp. Her fingers tighten in my hair, nails scraping my scalp hard enough to make me growl against her. The vibration makes her cry out.
I add pressure, change the angle, and her whole body goes taut. The trembling spreads from her thighs to her stomach, muscles jumping under my free hand. Her breathing fractures into short, desperate pants.
"Please," she chokes out. "Please, I can't—I need...”
I hum acknowledgment against her and she shatters.
Her spine arches clear off the bed, head thrown back, throat exposed in a way that makes my wolf roar with satisfaction. The sound she makes—raw and broken and beautiful—echoes off the walls. Her thighs clamp around my head like a vice, her whole body shaking with the force of her release.
And through the incomplete bond, I feel it. Not clearly, not fully, but enough. The pleasure crashes through our connection like a wave, muted but still powerful enough to make my vision blur. It's intense and overwhelming and just a fraction of what it will be once the bond is complete.
My control splinters. Cracks form in the iron restraint I've been maintaining, and the wolf pushes closer to the surface, demanding more.
"Need you," she gasps, pulling at my shoulders. "Please, Declan, I need...”
"I know." I move back up her body, settling between her thighs. The first touch of skin to skin makes us both groan. "Tell me if it's too much. Tell me if...”
"If you don't do something in the next five seconds, I'm going to...” Whatever threat she was going to make dies the moment I position myself at her entrance.
I press forward—slow, so fucking slow it's torture. The tight, slick heat of her body yields inch by inch, and every nerve ending I possess lights up like wildfire. My vision whites out at the edges. My hands shake where they're braced on either side of her head.
Every instinct I have howls at me to thrust hard and deep, to take what's mine, to pin her down and claim her properly. The wolf snarls and claws, demanding I move faster, harder, now.
I don't.
I ease forward another inch, feeling her body stretch around me, adjust to the intrusion. Her breath hitches. Her hands fly to my shoulders, nails biting into muscle.
"Breathe," I grit out, though I'm not sure if I'm talking to her or myself. "Just breathe, sweetheart."
She does, and I feel her body relax fractionally. I press deeper. Slowly. Carefully. Giving her time to accept me even though it's killing me, even though sweat is beading on my forehead from the effort of holding back.
Finally—finally—I'm fully seated inside her. Buried to the hilt. Home.
"Fuck," I choke out, because nothing in my life has ever felt like this. The way she grips me, hot and perfect and impossibly tight. The way her pulse pounds against my chest where we're pressed together. The way she fits me like she was made for this, made for me. "Eliza, you feel...”
"Move," she demands, her nails dragging down my back. "Please move."
I do. Slow at first, controlled, but she meets me thrust for thrust with a fearlessness that shouldn't surprise me.
This is who she is—quick-minded and brave and utterly unafraid.
She takes everything I give her and demands more, rolling her hips, arching her back, driving me toward the edge of control with every touch, every sound.
Through the bond, I feel her building toward something, feel the edges of her pleasure even though it's filtered, incomplete.
"Mine," I growl against her throat, and the shiver that runs through her body nearly undoes me. "Say it. Say you're mine."
"Yours," she gasps, and the word reverberates through me. "I'm yours, Declan."
Through the partial bond, sensation floods into me that isn't my own.
Heat that pools low in her belly. The flutter of nerves mixing with want.
Trust so absolute it makes my chest ache—she's giving herself over to this, to me, to whatever comes next.
And underneath it all, something that feels like recognition, like coming home, something I'm not ready to name because once I do, there's no taking it back.
My hips snap forward harder than I intend. Then again. The careful control I've been maintaining fractures, then breaks. I can't help it—can't slow down, can't gentle the rhythm. My body moves on instinct, finding a pace that's fast and deep and consuming.
Her legs lock around my waist, ankles hooking at the small of my back. She uses the leverage to pull me deeper with every thrust, meeting me stroke for stroke. Her heels dig into my ass, urging me on even as broken sounds spill from her throat.
The bed frame hits the wall with each thrust—a rhythmic bang that would be embarrassing if I could think past the tight, wet heat of her wrapped around me. Her nails score down my back again, leaving burning trails that will scar before they heal.
"That's it, sweetheart," I breathe, feeling her tighten around me. "Let go. I've got you."
"Declan...” My name breaks on a moan. She's climbing toward the edge. I adjust my angle slightly, and her eyes fly open. "There, oh god, right there...”