The heat flooding through me isn’t normal exhaustion haze. This is the heat cycle. Raw and demanding and completely beyond my control. It drowns out thought, drowns out guilt, drowns out everything except the bone-deep need to touch and taste and claim.
My hand slides into his hair.
He goes rigid beneath me.
I lean down and press my mouth to his.
The kiss is desperate, hungry, my tongue tracing the seam of his lips, demanding entry. He tastes like fire. Like danger. Like something that makes my wolf howl with satisfaction.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t kiss back. Doesn’t touch me. Just lies there frozen while I kiss him, his heart pounding against my chest, but his mouth still, his hands carefully not on me.
The lack of response makes my wolf snarl.
No. Want this. Need this. Make him—
I kiss him harder, deeper, my body moving against his, seeking that same friction from my dream. I can feel him beneath me through our clothes—his cock hard and thick, pressing against my center in a way that makes me gasp into his mouth. The drag of fabric between us is maddening.
Not enough. Need more. Need—
Still nothing from him.
He’s holding himself completely motionless. Like, if he doesn’t move, doesn’t respond, this isn’t happening. Like he can outlast my need through sheer stillness.
It makes my wolf furious.
I shift my weight, throwing my leg fully over his hips to straddle him properly. The new position puts us flush together, the hard length of him pressing directly against my pussy. Even through layers of fabric, I can feel every inch of him, thick and hot and straining against his pants.
He wants this as much as I do. He’s just holding back.
Why, dammit? Why??
I rock my hips. Slow. Deliberate. The grind sends heat spiraling through my belly, makes wetness flood between mythighs, makes me gasp against his mouth. A sound escapes him. Low. Strained. Almost pained. But his hands stay at his sides.
My wolf interprets this as rejection. As resistance that needs breaking.
I trail kisses down his jaw to his throat, feeling his pulse jump beneath my lips. My hands explore his chest, mapping the ridges of muscle, the valley of his sternum, the sharp edges of his hipbones where his pants sit low.
I rock against him again, harder this time. The ridge of his cock grinds against my clit through our clothes, and pleasure sparks sharp enough to make me moan against his throat.
He shudders beneath me. But still doesn’t touch me.
I kiss back up to his mouth, bite his lower lip hard enough to sting. “Touch me.”
“Nadia—” My name is barely a sound. Raw. Wrecked. “You’re not— This isn’t—”
“Touch me.” I rock against him, punctuating each word with movement. His cock drags against me, and I’m so wet I can feel it soaking through my pants, making everything slick and hot and incredible.
His whole body shudders. “You’ll— In the morning you’ll—”
“I don’t care about morning.” True. Right now, I don’t care about anything except the heat building between us, the need clawing through my veins, the way his cock feels pressed against me. “Touch me.”
His control breaks.
I feel it happen—the exact moment restraint snaps and instinct takes over. His hands find my hips and grip hard, fingers digging in through fabric. Not gentle. Not careful. Just need made physical.
Then he surges up, one hand in my hair, the other splayed across my lower back, and his mouth claims mine with a hunger that matches my own.
