I tried to protest, but he lifted me bodily off the ground, setting me on the built-in bench in the shower. His hands were rough, trembling a little, but so careful with me. He slid two fingers into my pussy, pumping them as his thumb found my clit again. I melted, thighs falling open, ready for whatever he wanted to give.
“You’re going to come for me again,” he growled.
“I can’t—” I started to say, but he shut me up with his mouth, kissing me hard as he fucked me with his fingers. The pressurebuilt fast, spiraling out of control, and when I came again, it was explosive—my body shuddering, eyes rolling back, a sob wrenching out of my chest.
He stroked my hair, whispering sweet, filthy things as I shook in his arms.
When I finally caught my breath, he turned me and sat, pulling me onto his lap, his cock sliding against my pussy, hard and hot. He didn’t try to enter me, just rocked against my clit, the head rubbing with perfect friction.
“Is this okay?” he asked, voice rough.
I nodded. “God, yes. I want you inside me. Please.”
He hesitated, then slid in, slow and careful, stretching me until I thought I might break. He was so thick I had to breathe through the first few strokes, but once he was all the way in, it felt right. Because we were made for each other.
He moved my body up and down slowly, his hips rolling, every thrust sending sparks up my spine. The water was still running, steaming us both. I clawed at his shoulders, nails digging in, wanting him deeper, harder as I rocked my hips.
“Faster,” I begged.
He obeyed, slamming into me from below with so much force I saw stars. I came again, tighter and longer this time, my pussy clenching around him as he groaned into my mouth. He lasted only a few more strokes before he shuddered, hips jerking, and emptied himself inside me. He didn’t give me his knot in this position; we simply made love, connected to each other.
We sat there together; the water washing everything away.
He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, my lips. “I love you,” he whispered, over and over.
I believed him with my very soul.
He washed me again, slow and sweet, then dried me in a fluffy towel. He gently sat me on the vanity stool and carefully combed every tangle from my hair. He surprised me when hegrabbed the blow dryer and dried it so it wouldn’t be a crazy mess in the morning.
If his mother could have seen us then, she’d have had to eat her pearls.
He didn’t let me go—not even for a second. As soon as we made it to the bedroom, he set me down on the mattress and crawled in after, his weight a comforting pull. The sheets were cool and crisp against my back, a shock after the steamy cocoon of the bathroom. I shivered, but it wasn’t the cold. It was the feeling of him—his eyes on my body, the way he surveyed me like I was a miracle instead of a mess.
“I love you,” he said, voice barely a whisper.
I sighed, content. “I love you more.”
We drifted off together, wrapped in each other, our worries melted away for the night.
Tomorrow, the world would come knocking. But for now, we had peace. We had each other.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not even all the trust funds in Texas.
Chapter 23
Big Papa
On the morning of Bronc and Juliet’s ceremony, I woke three minutes before the alarm. My brain was already in battle mode—scanning, prepping, sorting out every variable like the entire pack depended on me not screwing this up. Some things never changed, even when you finally found the one thing in this world worth living for.
The house was quiet. Aspen’s head rested against my shoulder, her hair a black river tangled around my bicep. Oscar had found his way into the crook of her knees, the little bastard snoring soft and proper, like a clock wound for royalty. The bondhummed between us, low and steady, the undercurrent of her warmth telling me she was safe and dreaming.
I slid out from under them and started the coffee, moving quiet as a fox so I wouldn’t wake her. The world outside was still dark, all star-pricked sky and wind. I stood at the kitchen window, mug in hand, and watched the first pale smear of dawn edge up behind the barn. You could feel it in your bones: today was the kind of day that split your life into before and after.
I ran down the mental checklist. Security at the club: tight, no fewer than a dozen trusted wolves running shifts. Wedding cake: Aspen and Oscar had it covered, a four-tier plus the two sheet cakes to cover all the guests. Food: Pearl’s had that on lockdown. There will be enough to feed two fifty, easy. The only wild card was the guest list.
Today, Dairyville would see more supernatural royalty than a Vegas casino in October. Menace and Savannah—now officially King and Queen of the Midwest packs—were due in by 10:00 sharp. I was looking forward to seeing my brother and his beautiful queen. After the fight they endured to be together, they deserved every happiness. Next came the vampire king, Kazimir Kozlov, bringing his daughter Lucia. He was also the head of the Russian Bratva and ran a successful nightclub in Philadelphia. But Lucia was our Luna’s best friend, so they were always welcome. If they kept their numbers small, I’d consider it a win.
On the maybe-list: King Archon Seraphael, angel of the high throne and unholy terror to anyone dumb enough to cross him. And if rumors were right, Rafe Mayfield, King of the Southwest wolves, would drop by “just to shake the Alpha’s hand.” That many apex predators in one place would make even the moon nervous.
