He grinned, wolfish. “You got a better theory?”
“No,” I said, then quieter: “But it doesn’t hurt. Not even a little.”
He let out a breath. “You’re a wonder, you know that?”
I shrugged, which made my ribs protest. “I try.”
He finished massaging the conditioner through my hair and rinsed it until the water ran clear. His hands didn’t shake this time.
We sat there until the water cooled and my fingers went pruney. He helped me up, wrapped me in a towel, and dried me with the care of someone preparing a relic for display. He carried me back to the bedroom and dressed me in one of his old shirts, which hung down to my knees.
He lay down beside me, drawing the covers over both of us. His arm wrapped around my waist, anchoring me to his body.
I let myself drift, knowing that whatever the blue mark on my skull meant, it didn’t matter. I was here. I was loved.
I woke up in a world of static and pressure.
Wrecker’s body was a furnace behind me, one arm a steel cable around my ribs, his hand cupped under my breast. His heartbeat pounded through my spine. He was always warm, but this morning he was molten, radiating through the layers of my borrowed t-shirt. There was another pressure, urgent and familiar, pressing against the small of my back. It took my bleary brain a second to realize it was his cock, rock hard and twitching against me, insistent as a metronome.
For a minute, I just lay there, breathing in the scent of him—soap and oranges and that raw, animal note that meant home. My body flushed awake in stages: first a low hum in my chest, then a fluttering in my gut, and finally a pulse of heatbetween my legs. It had been too long, and my wolf was out of patience. The memory of how he filled me, the burn and bliss of it, hit me all at once. I tried to shift, but he only tightened his grip, pinning me in place.
I turned in his arms his deep breath telling me he was still sleeping soundly. I reached inside his sleep pants and tenderly ran my fingers over his erection, watching his face. His eyebrows furrowed as he gave a small moan that made me even wetter than before. Gently, I traced my fingertips across his balls, then back up the length of his cock, a grin on my face.
“Morning, Wren,” as his eyes slowly opened.
“Morning,” I managed, as I gripped him a little harder.
His hand reached out and grasped my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make his point. “Hmm, a little bird thinks she’s in charge of something this morning. She could not be more mistaken.”
He wrapped his hand around mine and rocked his hips, eyes never leaving mine. “Fuck, that’s a nice way to wake up. You sure you’re up for this? We can wait. Let you heal.”
I twisted in his grip, finally managing to roll onto my back. He loomed over me, eyes gone storm-gray, wild but worried.
“I’m not fragile,” I said, reaching down to grip him again. He was huge in my hand, hot and heavy and already leaking. I stroked him once, twice, just to watch his eyes close.
When he opened them, he was smiling. “You trying to top me?”
I squeezed, hard enough to make his whole body flex. “Maybe.”
He growled, deep and hungry. “That’s not how this works, little bird.”
He pushed the t-shirt up and over my head, baring my skin. He paused at every bruise, every healing cut, tracing them with a thumb. The way he looked at me made me feel less like a victim and more like a miracle.
He spread my legs with a knee, settling between them. The heat of him was torture, so close, but not enough. His mouth went to my collarbone, sucking a line of fire down to my breast. He circled my nipple with his tongue, then bit down, gentle but possessive.
I arched into him, desperate. “Please,” I said, not sure if I meant for him to fuck me or just never stop touching me.
He slid his hand down, fingers skimming my ribs, my belly, then lower. He slipped two fingers into my panties, found me already soaked and aching. He circled my clit, feather-light, then slipped inside with maddening patience.
“You’re so wet,” he murmured, watching my face. “You are a needy little thing aren’t you?”
I nodded, unable to trust my voice.
“So am I, baby.”
He pulled back, making me whimper, then slid my panties down my legs and tossed them aside. He spread me open, studied me like a work of art, then lowered his mouth to my pussy. The first lick was slow, exploratory. The second was a punch of electricity straight to my core. He worked me with his tongue, alternating soft laps with sharp, insistent flicks. When I bucked against his face, he held me down, growling into my skin.
“Fucking fuck, Wren. You taste like happiness.”
