“Then don’t,” I whisper back, pulling him into another kiss, my body shuddering under the onslaught of pleasure, and of him, and of everything that’s been building between us.
And then it’s there, the snap, the explosion. Everything in me ignites at once. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can only feel.
My head falls back against the brick wall before his lips cover mine. The Omega whine that rushes up my throat is unstoppable, and it earns me another growl. My Ford. My Alpha. Pleased with me.
His grip on me tightens as he comes, his entire body tensing, his growl vibrating against my skin as he spills inside me. Thread after thread, filling me to the brink that brings pressure withthe pleasure I can’t escape. I feel the swell of his knot pressing against me, a primal reminder of what we’ve crossed into. The sensation of it makes everything inside me tighten in response, my body aligning with his in a perfect, unstoppable rhythm.
I follow right after him, my body trembling, shaking uncontrollably as the orgasm rips through me, leaving me breathless, boneless, lost in the fire that’s still burning between us. Drenching him in my slick as it spills from my body, soaking him the way he’s soaked my insides.
He turns us before we both collapse against the wall, chest to chest, gasping desperately, our bodies slick with sweat, but neither of us makes a move to pull away. I’m splayed against him, his knot trapping me to his body, and I nuzzle my face into the crook of his neck.
The heat of our skin, the feel of his knot ballooned inside me, keeps me grounded. His scent is all around me, sharp, wild, and possessive, filling my senses. I can feel the satisfied purr that rumbles deep in his chest, a vibration that sets every nerve on fire.
My fingers dig into his skin, pulling him closer, and I feel the urge to mark him, to claim him as my own. A primal, needy sound slips from me, something between a whine and a whimper.
I press my lips to the spot where his scent is strongest, my teeth grazing his neck, leaving behind a hickey I can’t deny. The proof of a longing deep within the pit of my gut that comes from instinct, and instinct alone.
And in the aftermath of all that, it feels like the world has finally stopped spinning.
After everything, the silence is a slap in the face. My body’s still trembling, but it’s not from the heat anymore. It’s from the damn cold that’s starting to creep in now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, leaving me raw and exposed.
In a flash, he pops out, leaving me dripping with the evidence of our debauchery and an empty ache that I don’t want to admit.
I’m back down on my feet, and then I’m fumbling with my clothes, fighting to get back into some semblance of normalcy. Every move feels like a reminder of what just went down. A reminder of how easily I lost myself in this whole mess.
Yeah, great talk.
The sting of the cold air against my skin is a welcome distraction, even though it doesn’t do much to cool the fire that’s still burning.
That fire, though? It’s fading fast, leaving me with something much more uncomfortable.
Shame.
It settles on me, a heavy coat I can’t take off, and I hate it. I hate that I let him do that to me, that I let myself fall into my instincts like that. And in public, of all places. Some stupid back alley, like a sleazy little?—
I can’t even look at him right now. It’s easier to just focus on getting the hell out of here, away from the mess we just made, away from the one thing I don’t know how to fix.
My chest feels tight, my heart heavy. The twisted feeling inside me hasn’t loosened, hasn’t even begun to shift, and it gnaws at me, a painful reminder that I don’t belong anywhere but with him. But right now, I can’t take it.
The scent of him still lingers on my skin, an undeniable mark of what just happened, and it makes me want to crawl out of it.
I’m empty and aching in a way I can’t even begin to explain, and every instinct is screaming for him, but it’s over.
“I’m leaving,” I mutter, yanking up my pants as if my life depends on it. Which it kind of does, honestly.
I’d be blacklisted from ever coming back to Honeysuckle Grove if someone walked around the corner and found us like this.
Ford doesn’t say anything, and I’m not sure what hurts worse: his silence or my trepidation. But honestly, I don’t think I want him to say anything. Maybe now that I’ve worked him out of my system, I can go back to my original plan of simply passing through.
The quiet’s better than whatever the hell he’d say to try and make sense of this disaster, anyway. And God knows I’ve never been good with words.
But I can feel him there, standing tall, stuffing himself back into his pants. I can almost hear the frustrated growl in his chest that he refuses to let loose. I can see his restraint in the way his jaw clenches, like he’s weighing what he should do in this moment.
Then, finally, his voice cuts through the silence, low and firm, like it always is when he’s trying to keep control.
“Lo.”
I don’t answer, though.
