“So,” she begins as she rocks on her heels, “here we are.”
“Here we are.”
I don’t move. Don’t reach for her. Don’t do anything except stand there like an idiot, frozen in place because I’m suddenly terrified of what happens next. I’m not scared of her; I’m scared of myself. Of how much I want this and how quickly she’s slipped past every defense I’ve spent years constructing around my heart.
But Caelan has no such reservations.
She closes the distance between us in two quick steps and reaches up to fist the fabric of my shirt, pulling me down toward her as she rises onto her toes.
Our lips meet, and every thought in my head goes completely, blissfully silent.
Chapter 3 - Caelan
The moment his lips touch mine, I forget every reason this might be a bad idea.
Patrick kisses like a man who’s been starving for connection, and I drink him in with equal desperation. His hands find my waist and pull me closer until there’s no space left between us, until I can feel every hard line of his body against my softer curves. I grab the collar of his shirt and hold on like he’s the only solid thing in a spinning world.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His amber-gold eyes have gone darker, and the sight of him looking at me like that sends heat pooling low in my belly.
Patrick pulls back just enough to look at me. His breath is ragged against my lips, and those amber-gold eyes are searching my face for what I can only guess is confirmation that I want this as much as he does.
I answer by reaching up and running my fingertips along the line of his jaw. His stubble is rough against my skin, and I like the way it feels. I like everything about this moment.
“I know what I want,” I tell him. “Do you?”
In answer, he groans and captures my mouth again. He kisses me like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he lets go for even a second. I match his hunger with my own as years of suppressed desire are finally given permission to surface and run wild.
He slides his hands down to grab my hips, and then he’s walking me backward toward the bed. The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and I let myself fall, pulling him down on top of me. His weight is solid and grounding, and I arch up intohim without thinking, seeking more contact, more friction, more everything.
I reach for the hem of his shirt and tug it upward. He takes the hint and sits back long enough to yank it over his head, revealing the broad chest and sculpted abs I’d been imagining all night. Scars crisscross his skin in patterns that speak of violence and survival, and I want to learn the story behind every single one.
“Your turn,” he prompts in a voice that’s rough with need.
I sit up and let him find the zipper at the back of my dress, and he drags it down, and I shiver at the contact despite the heat building between us. The fabric loosens, and he pushes it off my shoulders, down my arms, and past my hips until it falls onto the floor beside the bed.
I’m left in nothing but my underwear, and for a split second, old insecurities try to surface. I’m not built like the women in magazines or the lean warriors of my pack. My stomach isn’t flat, my thighs touch when I walk, and my breasts are probably too heavy for my frame. Before the curse broke, I would have covered myself with my arms. I would have made excuses and turned off the lights and hoped he wouldn’t notice all the ways my body fails to meet some arbitrary standard of perfection.
But Patrick is looking at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“God,” he breathes, and the reverence in his tone makes my heart stutter in my chest. “Look at you.”
He runs his hands up my sides, over the curve of my hips, and along the soft swell of my belly. There’s no judgment in his touch. Only hunger. Only want. He looks at my body like my curves are exactly what he’s been craving, and something insideme cracks wide open at the realization that I don’t have to hide. Not from him. Not tonight.
“You’re overdressed,” I manage to say as I reach for his belt with trembling fingers.
He helps me with the buckle, and then his pants are gone. There’s nothing between us but heat and skin and the desperate need to be closer. His hands are rough and sure as they explore my body, finding spots that make me gasp and arch underneath him.
“Patrick.” His name comes out as a plea, a prayer, a demand all wrapped into one breathless syllable.
He answers with his mouth on my neck, my collarbone, and the curve of my breast. Every touch sends sparks shooting through my nervous system, and I’m trembling with need by the time he finally finds his place between my thighs.
***
After the most erotic night of my life, I lie in the circle of his arms and try to remember how to form coherent thoughts.
The sex was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Not that I have much to compare it to; the curse made physical intimacy feel like going through the motions, a biological function stripped of any real emotion or connection. I’ve been with one man before tonight. It was a brief and forgettable encounter that left me wondering what all the fuss was about. But this was different. This was fire and need and a pleasure so overwhelming I thought I might shatter into a thousand glittering pieces.
And when his knot swelled inside me, locking us together in the most intimate way possible, the pleasure was so intenseI nearly blacked out. My entire body shook through waves of release that seemed to go on forever. I held on to him through all of it, with my face buried in his neck and his name falling from my lips like a chant. Even now, with his knot finally released and our bodies separated, I can still feel the echo of it thrumming through my veins like a second heartbeat.
