Grayson adjusts his position, creating a space for me between his legs. I hesitate for only a moment before crawling over and settling with my back to his chest. His hands come to rest on my shoulders, warm and strong through the thin fabric of my t-shirt.
“Tense,” he observes, his thumbs finding knots I didn’t know existed.
I gasp as he applies pressure to a particularly tight spot, pain and relief mingling in equal measure. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” His fingers work methodically, breaking down the tension with practiced precision. “Breathe through it.”
I follow his instruction, inhaling deeply as he works. His scent envelops me—pine and earth, smoke and leather—and I find myself leaning into it, into him. The pressure of his hands changes, becoming less clinical and more exploratory, tracing the curve of my neck, the line of my spine.
Without conscious decision, I shift in his lap, pushing back against him. The movement brings me directly over his groin, and I feel the unmistakable hardness growing beneath me. My omega responds instantly, a fresh wave of slick dampening my already ruined underwear.
I don’t realize I’m grinding against him until his hands grip my hips, stilling my movement.
“Holly,” he says, my name a warning and a question.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, turning to face him. God, what is wrong with me. “I didn’t mean…”
His eyes darken, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of gray remains. “I do owe you a knot.”
The words send a shiver through me, memory flashing to our encounter during my heat—his hands, his control, his refusal to take advantage.
“But we’ll start slower,” he continues, his voice dropping to a register that vibrates through my core.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My fingers find the edge of his bandanna, playing with the fabric as I wait for him to stop me. When he remains still, watching me with those intense eyes, I slowly lift the material, just enough to reveal his lips.
A knotted scar begins at his chin, disappearing upward beneath the fabric. But it’s his mouth that captures my attention—full lips, surprisingly soft-looking against the harshness of the scar tissue. A mouth made for sin.
I lean forward, giving him every opportunity to pull away. He doesn’t move, his breath warm against my face as I close the distance between us. When our lips finally meet, it’s gentle at first—a question, an exploration. Then his hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, and the kiss deepens, becoming something hungry and primal.
He tastes like coffee and spice, like wilderness and want. I melt against him, my hands finding purchase on his bare shoulders as his tongue slides against mine. The kiss is nothing like the frantic, heat-driven encounters we’ve shared before. This is deliberate, controlled, and somehow more intimate for it.
When we finally break apart, both breathing heavily, I realize Kai is still asleep just feet away, oblivious to what’s transpiring. The thought should embarrass me, but instead it adds a thrill of forbidden excitement.
Grayson’s eyes hold mine, asking a silent question. In answer, I press my hips down against his erection, feeling it pulse beneath the thin barrier of our clothing.
“Kai’ll be out like a light until the morning,” he murmurs against my lips. “But tell me to stop and I will.”
I nod, understanding. Whatever is happening between us deserves privacy, deserves intention. I start to move again on his lap, but his hands tighten on my hips, holding me in place for one more moment.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice rough with restraint. “No heat to blame this time.”
I distantly wonder if this will make things better or worse, but the thought floats away on a wave of desire. I guess the question of whether or not they’re a pack has been answered. Grayson and Kai wouldn’t have created what might be the nicest date night I’ve ever had otherwise.
I touch his face, tracing the edge of the scar visible beneath his bandana. “I’m sure.”
Something shifts in his expression—relief, hunger, a deeper emotion I can’t name.
“Come with me,” he says, lifting me effortlessly as he rises to his feet.
I wrap my legs around his waist, clinging to his shoulders as he carries me out of the fort, past our sleeping friend, and through the house. We move silently, a shared conspiracy, until we reach his bedroom—a space I’ve never entered before.
It’s surprisingly spartan—a large bed with simple dark sheets, a wooden dresser, a chair in the corner with clothes draped over it. No pictures on the walls, no personal touches beyond a knife displayed on the bedside table and a stack of books beside it.
He sets me down gently on the edge of the bed, stepping back to look at me. “Last chance to change your mind.”
Feeling bold, I tug gently on the hem of his bandanna. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
His eyebrows go up. “You can see whatever you want, but I don’t know how much you’ll like it.”
