The hazel has darkened. The warm brown and green that I associate with his playfulness and his warmth have been eclipsed by something deeper—the pupils dilated, the irises compressed to thin rings of color around centers that are black with a hunger that is not subtle and is not trying to be.
I know what that looks like.
I know what those eyes are asking.
And I know that if I say yes, this man will take me on a ride that will make the galloping palomino look like a gentle trot.
I nod.
Slowly.
The motion carrying the deliberate, eyes-open, fully-conscious consent of a woman who knows what she’s agreeing to and is choosing it. Not because biology demands it. Not because a heat cycle has stripped her of agency. Not because a pack expects it or a schedule requires it or the alternative is worse.
Because she wants to.
Because I want to.
Because this man sat beside me instead of across from me and listened when I talked and called me beautiful and kissed me like I was the only person in the room and hasn’t looked at a single other human being since we walked through the door.
Because he asked.
Oakley smirks.
The expression is devastating—the slow, satisfied, promise-loaded curve of a mouth that was on mine thirty seconds ago and fully intends to be on mine again soon, in a setting with fewer witnesses and fewer time constraints.
“Good,” he says.
Then he picks up the mini fork.
The transition is so smooth, so immediate, so seamlessly executed that I almost get whiplash—from hungry-eyed, low-voiced,do you have time after thisto dessert service in the spanof a single word. He slices a precise triangle from the blueberry crumble cheesecake, guides it onto the fork with the care of a man who respects pastry, and presents it to me.
“Eat up,” he says. The grin is back—the warm, bright, sunshine-in-human-form expression that makes him look like the most wholesome man alive, which is remarkable given that he just kissed me breathless and asked me to clear my afternoon. “Remember, you’re still recovering.”
He leans in.
Close enough that his lips brush my ear.
“You’ll need the energy for later,” he adds quietly.
The words landing in my ear canal and traveling directly to the warmth between my thighs with zero stops and zero interference.
I take the bite.
The cheesecake is extraordinary—dense, creamy, the blueberry crumble adding a tart sweetness that cuts through the richness with the same precision that Oakley’s teeth cut through my composure in the barn. But I barely taste it. My sensory system is allocated elsewhere. Distributed across the hand on my thigh and the scent in my hair and the whispered promise in my ear and the darkened hazel eyes of a man who is watching me eat with an expression that suggests the cheesecake is not the thing he’s hungry for.
Gosh.
I can’t wait to see what I’ve truly gotten myself into.
CHAPTER 23
Locked In
~HAZEL~
The ride back from the Pink Donut had been pure, unadulterated torture.
Not the kind inflicted by suspects in interrogation rooms or the slow grind of piecing together cold cases in the dead of night.
