I growl, low and guttural, into her cleavage, and she looks up at me, mouth open, hungry for more, eating the sound I make as I start to lose control.
Zane’s fingers are in her hair, tangling, guiding her face towards my cock, and when she licks the tip, hot and insistent, I nearly black out.
Her tongue is heaven, rough with greed, and so patient I want to die just to feel relief from the hunger she stokes in me.
I stop, right before the edge, and she laughs, a wounded, nasty sound, as if she wants to see what happens when I have to wait my fucking turn as she is.
Zane peels her off the rug and sets her down on my lap, and now it’s her turn to drive: she grabs my cock, lines it up, and impales herself so fast I can’t even breathe.
She clenches around me, still trembling, and rides as if she wants to strip every last shred of sadness from her body.
Zane braces her waist from behind, fingers digging in so tight there’ll be bruises, and together they slam me into the floor, an avalanche I can barely survive. She grinds down, hard and mean.
My entire world reduces to a pinhole version of her as her pussy clamps and tightens around me, milking the orgasm from me. Once I start shooting my seed, I’m sure it’ll never end, and honestly, I don’t want it to.
This, to me, is heaven.
This is home.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Aurora
Coyote Glen doesn’t canceljoy. Not for bad weather, not for gossip, and apparently not even for fear, which feels… important.
Because two weeks ago, I woke up with zip ties cutting into my skin and the world reduced to concrete and darkness and the sound of my own breathing.
And today, the town square shines for Founder’s Day.
Lanterns hang between buildings like constellations someone decided we deserved to borrow for a while, string lights wrapped around trees and railings in loose, glowing spirals that make everything feel warmer than it should be for this time of year. The air is drowning in sugar and smoke and fried food and a floral scent that drifts in and out depending on which way the breeze turns, and everywhere I look, there are people. Laughing, talking, arguing over pie judging like it’s a matter of national importance.
It’s so aggressively, stubbornly alive that I just stand there at the edge of it, letting it wash over me.
Letting myself catch up.
“Okay,” I murmur under my breath, more to calm the rhythm in my chest than anything else. “You can do this.”
And I can.
I know I can.
It just… takes a second sometimes.
There are still moments where my body forgets where I am, where a loud noise or a sudden movement pulls tight under my ribs before my brain can step in and say, ‘no, you’re safe, you’re here, you’re okay’. There are still mornings when I wake up already reaching for proof, fingers brushing my wrists like I need to confirm that nothing is holding me there anymore.
But there’s also this. Warm light, laughter, a town that didn’t step back when things got messy, but stepped closer, a town that, somehow, closed ranks around me like I was already theirs.
“Aurora, hi!”
I smile before I even turn.
Dottie Langford materializes at my side like she’s been summoned by the collective emotional energy of the whole square.
“Well,” she says, giving me a once-over that feels equal parts assessment and approval, “you clean up nicely for someone who got dramatically kidnapped.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound slipping out easier than it would have even a few days ago. “Hi to you too, Dottie.”
She hums, satisfied, like I’ve passed some kind of test. “You look better.”
