I toss my clothes off the side of the bed, and Alden’s eyes burn into me like he’s seeing me naked for the first time. Heat rises on my skin, and I clench my thighs together against the ignited flames burning in my moist sex.
He crawls on the bed, his hands closing around my thighs, pulling them apart with a firm grip that only increases the achebetween my legs. I lift my hips off the bed, begging him with my body.
He slides his hands up my thighs and grips my hips, his fingers sinking into my skin with bruising force, causing me to arch into his grasp.
When he pushes into me, the sound I make is wrenched out of me before I have time to contain it.
He doesn't give me time to adjust to the rhythm and thrusts into me hard and immediate, each thrust carrying the same urgency as the kiss. His hips snap forward with a force that drives the air from my lungs in short, involuntary exhales that become moans that become something less coherent than that.
The bedframe creaks and groans.
His mouth drops to my breasts and his tongue traces each nipple in turn, lavishing them with soft licks and sharp nips. The contrast short-circuits my nervous system in a way that has me arching off the mattress and gripping the back of his head.
His lips find my neck. Find the mark.
The bond flares the moment his mouth closes over it, a surge of heat that amplifies every sensation it touches, his hands tightening on my hips, his breath rough and ragged against my skin.
I lock my ankles behind him and lift to meet his thrusts, chasing the pressure building deep in my core, and the thin film of sweat between our bodies makes every slide of skin against skin overwhelming.
"Alden." His name comes out broken.
He groans against my throat and drives his cock deeper, and that's all it takes.
The orgasm breaks through me like a current, sharp and total, pleasure crashing from my core outward in waves that leave me shaking and breathless. I cry his name into the dark of the room, my whole body wrung tight and then released, andI feel him follow—his hands gripping my hips hard, his exhale rough and low against my neck as he buries himself deep and stills, shuddering through his own release.
The room goes quiet.
We stay tangled together while the breathing slows, his weight half on me and half on the mattress, my fingers still threaded into his hair. The mate bond hums low and satisfied between us, the way it does after, warm and grounding and present.
I stare up, unseeing, and feel my body, soft and boneless, the kind of contentment that follows complete surrender, every muscle unclenching at once.
"I still hate the contingency plan," I say, when I can form words again.
He laughs—actually laughs, a real one, quiet and rough—and presses his mouth to my temple. "I got that.”
I'm almost asleep when he shifts behind me.
His chest settles against my back, warm and solid, and I feel his fingers in my hair before I'm fully awake. He's working with quiet, careful focus, and after a moment I realize he's braiding—a loose, single plait running down the left side of my face.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"It’s a Luna Braid," he says. His fingers work slowly, unhurried, the rhythm of it almost hypnotic. "It's an old pack tradition. Before a battle, the Alpha braids his mate's hair on the left side." He pauses. "It means she's under his protection even when he can't physically stand between her and the threat."
I hold still and let him finish. He ties the end with a thin cord, something from his jacket pocket, and smooths the braid flat against my shoulder.
“That’s kind of beautiful,” I say.
"And it’s a signal to the pack. Any wolf who sees that braid knows what it means."
I reach up and touch the plait with my fingers. It's tight and neat, the kind of work that takes practice.
"How many times have you done this?" I ask.
"Never," he says.
I don't have an answer for that, so I don't give one.
We sleep.
