And when I do—when pleasure rips through me like a comet blazing across the night sky—I scream his name and hold nothing back.
Because he’s not just inside me.
He’s in me.
Body, heart, and soul.
“Another. I want another,” he growls, moving harder now, faster.
And I am right there with him.
“Eb!”
We move together in time with the flicker of Christmas lights and the rhythm of the storm outside, the moment building between us like a crescendo of hope, of healing, of something old as the moon and new as a freshly baked batch of gingerbread.
“That’s it. Squeeze my cock with your perfect pussy. Show me who you belong to,” he demands, voice full of gravel and promise.
And when my body obeys—when pleasure spirals out from my core in blinding waves and I cry out, breaking apart for him—Eb goes feral.
His mouth closes over my shoulder.
I gasp, arching into him.
Then he bites.
A sharp press of teeth and power, claiming me with his Badger’s mark.
The magic flares between us like a snapped wire sparking to life—hot, bright, binding.
I feel it.
His soul tangling with mine.
The orgasm that tears through me makes the others feel like warm-up acts.
I can’t breathe, can’t think. Just feel. Just fall.
I cry out again, the world fracturing around me, and all I know is him.
Eb. My mate.
By the time we collapse into each other, trembling and sticky and sated, the room is quiet.
Except for the slow, steady hiss of wind against the wall of windows and the soft crackle of the fire he must’ve lit earlier.
The snow has picked up outside, layering the world in glittering white.
A hush falls over everything.
A hush that feels like peace.
Like home.
I rest my cheek against his chest, smiling as I feel his heart thudding beneath my ear.
Strong. Steady.
Mine.
