Oh yeah. That’s right. He’s not in my head. We’re two separate people, even though it doesn’t feel like we are.
“The time on the sofa. When you were sitting over there.” I point my finger to the place where we were joined,where I sat on top of him and we couldn’t make ourselves come apart.
“Oh, um…” He nods thoughtfully. “I’m not sure.”
As he says it, I’m bombarded with an image of amber eyes, bloodshot and bleary. Lids hooded as helpless laughter ricocheted out of him.
His knot thickened and pulsed when he laughed, and it made me come. When I came, my hole spasmed, and that made him come.
We laughed and laughed as we came uncontrollably.
When the memory threatens to make my blood pressure spike irrevocably, I try to shake it off. In doing so, I land on something completely different: Branson on the kitchen island. Not next to the counter. Not near it. On top of it. His feet planted on the marble, his posture that of a man built to fuck. One leg was bent at the knee, and his hip and cock were cocked in my direction. He was stark naked, his dick rock hard and dripping with precum. He had a pink feather boa wrapped around his neck, and he was butchering a Mariah Carey number.
“Why were you on the kitchen counter, andwhywere you wearing a feather boa?” I ask, too befuddled by his attire to touch on the Mariah Carey situation.
Branson drops his head into his hand and a slow, amatory grin creeps up his face. His lips part, pulling back andshowing me a flash of teeth. He shakes his head and swipes his hand across his forehead. He looks at me, and there’s something so familiar, so comforting, about his smile that I’m grateful I’m lying down.
“You told me that if I did it, you’d invite me to join the Bad Bitches Getaway group chat,” he says.
As he speaks, a devastatingly soft, gravelly laugh reverberates out of him. I don’t hear it as much as I feel it. In my dick. In my balls. In my quivery, throbbing, bruised hole.
“And, and, is that something you want?” I splutter, taken aback.
He laughs again. Better and worse than before.
My vision blurs.
A smile wraps around his words and ties them in a bow. “It seemed…aspirationalat the time.” He shakes his head at himself and scrapes his teeth against his lip to tamp down his laughter.
I giggle, though I don’t mean to. I giggle, even though I’m not even sure it’s all that funny. I laugh in an out-of-control way that my ass remembers. My dick too.
I sit up quickly, grabbing the pillow from under my head and placing it firmly on my lap as I realize with shock what’s happening in my pants.
Branson averts his gaze, fixing it on the fire that flickers steadily ahead of him.
“Maybe it won’t be that bad,” he says very quietly.
My head spins with rage, and I clamber to my feet, throwing the pillow back onto the sofa.
It won’t be that bad?
What the hell is wrong with him? We’re mated for life, and we hardly know each other. Of course it will be that bad.
I stomp out of the living room, the bond protesting strenuously as I move away from him.
I stop and pause microscopically to wait for Branson to follow me when I get to the hallway. It’s fine. I’m not doing it for me. I’m doing it for him. He’s only an alpha. His pain tolerance is probably very low compared to mine.
He yelps softly and clutches his chest as he trots after me, proving my point.
Getting ready for bed is an awkward affair that sees Branson whimpering at the bathroom door while I brush my teeth and wash my face a little more aggressively than strictly required.
When it’s his turn to use the bathroom, I don’t whimper at all.
I mean, yes, technically, it’s because I’m gritting my teeth and keeping a hand clamped over my mouth, but still.
“You may sleep here,” I say, gesturing charitably to the floor next to my bed when Branson emerges from the bathroom.
“Thank you,” he replies so earnestly that I almost start laughing again.
