"You should run." His voice was ragged, desperate, but he was leaning into my touch, his hand coming up to cover mine where it rested on his face, his fingers curling around my wrist like he couldn't bear to let go. "Any smart person would run."
"Good thing I'm not smart." I smiled at him, soft and sad and fierce all at once, my thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone, my voice dropping to something tender. "Good thing I'm a big feral."
He made a sound — half laugh, half sob — and then his forehead was dropping to rest against mine, his breath hot on my lips, his hand tightening over mine, his whole body trembling.
"I grew up feral too, you know." My voice was barely a whisper, my eyes closed, breathing him in — pine and wild sage and something sharp and clean, my free hand finding his shoulder and holding on. "Foster care. Group homes. Places where you learned fast that kindness was a trap and softness would get you killed."
"Aster..." His voice was rough, pained, his free hand coming up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers sliding into my hair, his touch desperate and gentle all at once.
"There was this one home." I kept talking, needing him to understand, needing him to see that we were the same, my voice steady despite the memories clawing at my chest. "I was fourteen. The Alpha who ran it, he... he didn't want labor. He wanted something else. Something worse." I felt Sawyer go rigid, a growl rumbling in his chest, but I pressed on, my hand tightening on his shoulder. "I bit him. Tore a chunk out of his arm when he tried to touch me. Then I ran, and I didn't stop running for six years."
"I'll kill him." Sawyer's voice was barely human, more growl than words, his whole body vibrating with barely containedviolence, his hand tightening on my neck, his scent going sharp and dangerous.
"He's dead." I cut him off gently, my hand stroking his cheek, trying to soothe the rage I could feel building in him, my voice calm and steady. "Heart attack, three years ago. I checked."
Some of the tension drained out of him, but not all of it. His breathing was still harsh, his hand still tight on my neck, his scent still sharp and aggressive, his amber eyes blazing with protective fury.
"That's when I went feral." I continued, my voice soft, my forehead still pressed to his, my breath mingling with his. "Really feral. Not just cautious or defensive, but... gone. I stopped trusting anyone. Stopped letting anyone close. Built walls so high I couldn't even see over them anymore." I opened my eyes, finding his amber gaze mere inches away, burning with intensity, tears still tracking down his cheeks. "Until I came here. Until I found you. All of you."
"We're the same." His voice was wondering, rough, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, his eyes roaming over my face like he was seeing me for the first time, awe and pain and love all tangled together in his expression. "Two broken things."
"Two survivors." I corrected softly, turning my head to press a kiss to his palm, feeling him shudder, my lips lingering on his rough skin. "Two feral creatures who somehow found their way home."
The moment shifted. I felt it like a change in air pressure, like the moment before a storm breaks. His scent deepened, went darker, pine and sage giving way to something muskier, hungrier. His pupils dilated and his hand on my neck tightened, not painful but possessive.
"Aster." My name was a growl, a warning, his whole body going taut with barely restrained want, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous. "If you don't want this, you needto leave. Now. Because I'm about to do something I can't take back."
"Who says I don't want it?" I shifted closer, my free hand coming up to rest on his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath my palm, my voice dropping to something low and wanting, my eyes holding his. "Who says I haven't been wanting it since the first time you growled at me?"
He made a sound — something between a groan and a growl — and then his mouth was on mine. The kiss was nothing like Nolan's tender exploration or Reid's controlled passion. It was wild and hungry and desperate, all teeth and tongue and the sharp scrape of stubble against my skin. His hands were in my hair, pulling me closer, angling my head so he could kiss me deeper, and I was making sounds I didn't recognize, whimpers and moans that seemed to drive him wilder.
I climbed into his lap without breaking the kiss, my knees bracketing his hips, my hands fisting in his flannel shirt. He groaned against my mouth, his hands sliding down to grip my hips and pull me flush against him, and I gasped at the feel of him — hard already, straining against his jeans, pressing against exactly where I needed him.
"Fuck." He tore his mouth from mine, his voice wrecked, his amber eyes blazing as he stared up at me, his chest heaving, his hands flexing on my hips like he couldn't decide whether to pull me closer or push me away. "Aster, we should?—"
"Don't stop." I rolled my hips against him, watching his eyes go hazy with want, feeling an answering pulse of heat between my thighs, my voice coming out breathy and desperate, my fingers digging into his shoulders. "Please don't stop."
He growled — actually growled, the sound rumbling up from deep in his chest — and then his mouth was on my neck, teeth scraping over my pulse point, tongue soothing the sting. Hishands slid under my shirt, rough palms skating up my sides, and I arched into the touch, needing more, needing everything.
"You smell so good." His voice was muffled against my throat, his hands spreading wide across my back, pulling me impossibly closer, his breath hot on my skin, his whole body vibrating with want. I grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged, needing to feel his skin, my fingers fumbling with the fabric in my desperation.
"Off." My voice was demanding, breathless, my hands yanking at his shirt, my eyes dark with want. "I need this off." He pulled back just enough to let me yank it over his head, and then I was staring at his chest — broad and scarred and perfect, a roadmap of violence and survival written across his skin.
"Can I?" My voice was barely a whisper, my hands hovering over the worst of the scars, a thick white line that ran from his collarbone to his ribs, my eyes tracing each mark with something like reverence.
"Yeah." His voice was rough, vulnerable, his amber eyes watching my face like he was waiting for me to recoil, his hands still and tense on my hips. "Yeah, you can touch."
I traced the scar with my fingertips, feeling him shiver beneath my touch, feeling the goosebumps rise in the wake of my fingers. Then I leaned down and pressed my lips to it, feeling him jerk, hearing the broken sound that escaped his throat, his hands flying to my hair.
"Beautiful." I murmured against his skin, kissing my way across his chest, across every scar I could reach, my hands exploring the hard planes of his stomach, my voice soft with wonder. "You're beautiful, Sawyer."
"No one's ever—" His voice cracked, his hands trembling where they rested on my hips, his whole body shaking beneath me, his amber eyes bright with tears he couldn't hide. "No one's ever said that."
"Then everyone else was blind." I lifted my head to meet his eyes, letting him see the truth in mine, my hands still spread across his chest, my voice fierce with conviction. "Or stupid. Or both."
He surged up and kissed me again, hard and desperate, and I melted into him, my hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. He tugged at my shirt and I broke the kiss just long enough to pull it over my head, watching his eyes go dark at the sight of me in just my bra.
"Christ." His voice was reverent, wrecked, his hands coming up to trace the edge of the fabric, his touch featherlight and maddening, his amber eyes roaming over me like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "You're gorgeous. You're so fucking gorgeous."
