The kiss is brutal. Consuming. His tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that mimics what our bodies want, what we’re building toward with every rock and grind and press of flesh against flesh.
His hand in my hair tightens, angling my head exactly where he wants it. The control in that grip sends heat flooding through me. My wolf approves, wants his dominance, wants his surrender, wants everything.
I press down against his shaft, and his other hand on my hip guides the movement, shows me the angle he wants, the pressure that makes his breath catch and his fingers tighten and a groan tear from his throat into my mouth.
His cock is iron-hard beneath me, thick enough that even through layers of fabric I can feel how big he is. How much he wants this despite trying to resist. The knowledge sends power surging through me; I did this to him, my touch, my kiss, my body moving against his.
I rock harder, and his grip on my hip tightens almost to bruising. The pain edges into pleasure, makes me moan into his mouth, makes me writhe against him seeking more.
His mouth leaves mine to trail down my throat. Hot. Open-mouthed. His teeth scrape my pulse point, and I gasp, head falling back, exposing my neck. My hips never stop moving, rolling against him in a rhythm that’s pure instinct.
“God,” he groans against my throat, and his voice is more undone than I’ve ever heard it. His hand slides from my hair down my spine, under the shirt—his shirt that I’m wearing—to find bare skin. The contact of his palm against my back makes us both freeze for half a second. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. Dragonfire responding to wolf heat in a way that makes the air between us shimmer.
Then his hand is moving, gliding up my spine, fingers tracing vertebrae. His other hand leaves my hip to slide under the shirttoo, both palms now against bare skin. Exploring. Learning. One hand spans my ribs while the other traces the curve of my spine, and every touch makes me flex into him, makes sounds escape my throat that are more animal than human.
His mouth finds that spot where my neck meets my shoulder and bites down. Not hard enough to break skin but enough to make me cry out, enough to make my hips jerk against him in a movement that grinds his cock against my clit perfectly.
Pleasure spikes sharp and bright. I’m close to… something. Some edge I’m racing toward with every movement.
“Ohhhh…” I moan, the sound coming from deep in my throat.
He claims my mouth, swallowing the sound, and goes back to guiding my movement. Faster. Harder. The control in that touch, the way he’s directing exactly how I move against him, makes everything more intense. Makes the heat building in my belly coil tighter.
I can feel his cock twitch beneath me, feel the dampness where precum has soaked through fabric, feel how close he is to losing the last threads of control.
One hand slides around to my front. Under the shirt. Across my stomach. Higher.
His palm cups my breast, and I groan at the touch, desperate for more contact. His thumb finds my nipple and circles it, teases it, makes me whimper and rub harder against the thick length pressing between my thighs.
“Nadia.” My name is broken. Desperate. His mouth against my throat. “We need to— This is—”
“Don’t stop,” I gasp. I kiss him again, muffling whatever protest he was forming. “Please don’t stop.”
His hand on my breast tightens, and I moan into his mouth. His other hand grips my hip hard enough to leave marks and guides me into a rhythm that’s faster, harder, chasing the pleasure building between us.
I’m so wet I can feel it, slickness coating my thighs, soaking through fabric until there’s almost no barrier between us. Just the drag and grind and maddening friction of his cock against my clit.
His mouth moves to my ear. “If we don’t stop—” His voice is wrecked. “I can’t— I won’t be able to—”
“Good.” I rock against him harder. “Don’t.”
The hand on my breast slides lower. Over my ribs. My stomach. Down to where fabric bunches between us.
His fingers find the waistband of my pants. Slip beneath it, grazing over bare flesh to where no one has touched me in years. Where Chance—
Reality slams into me.
Not gradual. Not gentle. Just sudden, complete awareness of what I’m doing. Who I’m with. How far we’ve gone.
I’m straddling Jericho Allon. The man who killed my mate. And his hand is inside my pants, and I’m soaked for him and grinding against him like nothing else matters.
I scramble backward so fast I nearly fall off the bed. Hit the headboard with my back. My hand flies up—to my mouth, my throat, somewhere. Like I can somehow undo what just happened. Undo all of it.
“What—?” The word comes out broken. “What did I—?”
I can’t finish. Can’t process.
Because I just— We just—
