“More.” The word is a ragged command against my throat, his breath hot on my skin. “Give me more.”
My hands tear at his belt, the buckle clattering against the floor. He shoves my skirts up, his fingers finding the wet heat between my legs. I arch into his touch, a broken sound escaping me as he strokes my pussy, his touch knowing, demanding.
“Now,” I gasp, my fingers digging into his back. “I need you now.”
He doesn’t make me wait. He drives his cock into my pussy in one deep, claiming thrust. The air leaves my lungs in a rush. He fills me completely, a perfect, aching fit. For a heartbeat, we are still, fused together, our breaths mingling. Then he moves.
He sets a brutal, driving rhythm, each thrust slamming the cot against the stone wall. The world narrows to this: the smell of him, sweat and winter air; the sound of our ragged breathing; the slick, wet sound of our bodies joining. I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him deeper, meeting every plunge with a roll of my own.
He shifts, angling himself, and the next thrust hits a spot deep inside that makes me cry out, my vision blurring at the edges. A groan rips from his chest, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure.
“Yes,” he rasps, his forehead pressed to mine. “Just like that.”
His pace quickens, becomes frantic, a race toward a finish line we both see. I claw at his shoulders, my head thrown back, lost in the sheer physical glory of it. This is not love. It’s something more primitive, more honest. It’s need, stripped bare. It’s two broken things finding a jagged, perfect fit.
He continues fucking me, each thrust a deep, deliberate stroke that steals my breath and replaces it with him. The world dissolves into the rhythm of our bodies, the rough slide of hisskin against mine, the solid weight of him holding me down and lifting me up all at once.
“You feel…” he breathes into the curve of my neck, his voice a ragged scrape of sound. “God, Mary, you feel fucking amazing.”
His pace shifts, slows, becomes something more than frantic need. He pulls almost all the way out, making me gasp at the sudden emptiness, then sinks back into me with a groan that seems pulled from the very core of him. He’s drawing this out, making me feel every inch of his cock filling my pussy, stretching me, claiming me in a way that has nothing to do with possession and everything to do with belonging.
My hands slide from his shoulders down the hard plane of his back, feeling the muscles cord and flex with every movement. I hook my ankles tighter around him, pulling him deeper still, needing him to touch a part of me I didn’t know was empty.
A low, approving rumble vibrates in his chest. “That’s it. Take all of me.”
He braces one hand beside my head, the other gripping my hip, his fingers pressing into my skin as he sets a new, relentless pace. It’s deeper, harder, each thrust a perfect, aching friction that coils the tension tighter and tighter low in my belly. My nails dig into his back as a wave of pleasure builds, threatening to break.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, my voice a broken whisper against his shoulder. “Please, Silas, don’t stop.”
“Never,” he vows, his breath hot on my skin. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
His mouth finds mine again, swallowing my gasp as he begins to move. It’s not a frantic race, not anymore. It’s a deep, rolling rhythm that speaks of time and intent. He fills me completely with each long, slow thrust, his cock a perfect, hard heat inside my pussy. I arch into him, my body singing with the rightness of it, my fingers tracing the powerful line of his back.
“You feel like coming home,” I breathe against his lips, the words torn from some deep, unguarded place.
A low groan rumbles in his chest, and he shifts, angling his hips. The next thrust brushes a spot deep inside me that makes my vision blur. My breath hitches, a soft cry escaping me.
“Right there,” he murmurs, his voice thick and raw. His pace quickens just a fraction, each movement precise, deliberate, aimed at that same perfect, aching place. “Let me feel you.”
I can’t hold back. The coil of pleasure tightens, unbearably sweet, and then shatters. I cry out, my body clenching around his cock in waves of pure, blinding release. He holds himself deep inside me, his own control fraying as my pussy milks him.
“Mary…” It’s a prayer, a curse, my name a broken thing on his lips. His rhythm fractures into short, desperate thrusts. I feel the hot pulse of his own climax, a flood of warmth that echoes my own. He collapses against me, his weight a solid, comforting anchor, his face buried in the crook of my neck. Our hearts hammer against each other, a frantic, slowing drumbeat.
We lie like that for long moments, breath slowly returning to normal. The air is rich with the scent of us, of sex and sweat and something softer, something that feels dangerously like peace.
18
SILAS
The fire hasn’t burned down yet, though it’s quieter now, the flames lower, the heat softer, shadows stretched long across the beams above. The storm outside has dulled to a steady hush, snow sliding against the shutters, a rhythm almost gentle compared to the night we fled through. The air in the safehouse still carries her: her scent woven through the blankets, through my skin, through the wolf pacing restless in my chest.
I sit on the bed, my shirt half-buttoned, my hair damp with sweat and melted frost. My body should feel lighter, steadier, after what we just did. Instead it feels heavier, coiled tight with something I can’t shake.
Because to me, it meant more.
I glance at her. Mary stands by the window, the firelight painting her back in gold and shadow, her bare shoulders tense as if she’s bracing against some storm only she can feel. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Her wolf is close, I can feel it, but she holds herself so tight she may as well be carved from stone.
I clear my throat, the words rough, low. “Mary?—”
