I look at him.
He’s propped up on his elbows, chest heaving, shirt rucked up to expose his stomach, hair completely destroyed from my hands. His lips are swollen from kissing. His pants… I can see the outline of his erection straining against the fabric, can see the wet spot where precum soaked through, and my juices mingled.
Evidence of what we were doing.
What I wanted.
What I almost—
“Oh God.”
“Nadia—”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. Shaking. “Don’t say anything. Just—don’t.”
Silence crashes down.
Heavy. Suffocating.
I squeeze my eyes closed to shut out the sight of him. I can’t comprehend what just happened. Can’t reconcile the fact that I was just grinding on him, kissing him, wanting him with an intensity that terrified me.
Still want him.
That’s the worst part.
My body hasn’t gotten the message that this was wrong. Heat still floods through me. Wetness still slicks my thighs. My wolf is howling in frustration at being pulled back from the edge.
Mine. Want. Need. Go back.
No.
I press my hands against my face. Try to breathe. Try to think through the haze of arousal and confusion and horror.
What did I just do?
I can still taste him. Still feel where his hands were. Still feel the hard length of him pressed against me, thick and heavy and—
Stop!
I hear him move. The rustle of fabric. The shift of weight on the mattress.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is rough. Strained. “I should have— I shouldn’t have—”
“You didn’t do anything.” The words come out harsh. “I started it. You tried not to. I made you—”
“You didn’t make me do anything.” Quiet. Certain. “I wanted—” He stops. “It doesn’t matter what I wanted. You weren’t fully—”
“I was awake.” I force myself to look at him. To own this. “Maybe not at first. But by the end? I knew what I was doing.”
His jaw tightens. Neither of us speaks.
The silence stretches. Unbearable.
A knock at the door shatters it.
We both freeze.
Another knock. “Room seven? Got a message for you.”
