His hands found her hips, pulling her flush against him. She gasped into his mouth—a small, surprised sound that sent fire racing through his blood. Her arms wound around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, and she kissed him back with equal hunger.
They stood like that for long minutes, learning each other through lips and tongue and breath. Cal walked her backward until her shoulders hit the wall, and she made a needy sound when he pressed the full length of his body against hers. He was already hard—had been since she’d opened the door—and he knew she could feel it through the thin barrier of her shorts.
“Cal.” His name was a moan against his lips. Her hips rolled against his, seeking friction, and he had to grip her waist to keep from losing his mind entirely.
“The oven,” she managed between kisses. “I should?—”
Cal released her long enough to stride into the kitchen and turn off the oven. The half-formed croissants inside would be ruined. He couldn’t bring himself to care.
When he turned back, Dahlia was watching him with dark eyes and parted lips, her breath coming in rapid bursts. The oversized shirt had slipped further down her shoulder, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone, the soft swell of skin beneath. Her nipples were visibly peaking through the thin fabric.
“Bedroom.” Not a question.
She took his hand and led him down the short hallway.
Moonlight came through lace curtains,soft and silver. The room smelled like her shampoo and warm cotton.
Here, the animal insisted.This is where she rests. This is where she’s vulnerable. She’s letting us in.
He understood the significance. Dahlia let everyone into her bakery, her life, her energy. But this space was hers alone—the one place she could stop performing, stop nurturing, stop being needed. And she was inviting him in.
Cal turned her to face him, cupping her face in both hands. “Tell me what you want. Tell me everything.”
“You.” She rose on her toes to kiss him, soft and sweet. “Inside me.” Another kiss, deeper. “Making me forget my own name.” She nipped at his lower lip, and his grip tightened involuntarily. “Think you can manage that?”
“I’m going to try.”
He kissed her again, slower this time, tasting and exploring. His tongue traced the seam of her lips before delving inside, and she melted against him with a soft moan. His hands slid down her sides, found the hem of her shirt, and paused.
“Yes,” she breathed before he could ask.
He pulled the shirt over her head in one smooth motion. She wasn’t wearing a bra—hadn’t expected company at one in the morning—and Cal’s brain short-circuited at the sight of her.
Soft curves. Skin flushed pink in the moonlight. Breasts that fit perfectly in his palms when he reached for her, dusky nipples already peaked and begging for his mouth. She was beautiful—not in the polished, artificial way of the women who’d circled him in Seattle, but real and alive.
“You’re staring.” Her voice held a hint of self-consciousness, her arms starting to come up.
“Don’t.” He caught her wrists gently, lowering them back to her sides. “You’re worth staring at. Every inch of you.”
He bent to kiss her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breast. When his lips closed around one nipple, she cried out, her back arching off the mattress. He sucked gently, then harder when she fisted her hands in his hair and pulled him closer. His tongue swirled around the stiffened peak while his hand found her other breast, rolling and pinching until she was writhing beneath him.
“Cal—” Her voice was ragged. “That feels—oh god?—”
He switched sides, giving her other breast the same attention, and felt her thighs clench around his hips. She ground against him, seeking pressure where she needed it most, and the friction through their remaining clothes was maddening.
Her hands found his shirt, tugging impatiently. He helped her, yanking the fabric over his head and tossing it aside. Her palms flattened against his torso, exploring the planes of muscle, tracing the healing scars on his ribs with gentle fingers.
“These are almost healed.” Wonder in her voice. “Shifter recovery is incredible.”
“They’ll scar.” He captured her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. “I don’t mind. They remind me what I’m fighting for.”
“And what’s that?”
He kissed her deeply, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips. “You. This. Everything I didn’t know I was allowed to have.”
They fellonto the bed in a tangle of limbs and urgent touches.
Cal learned her body with the same thorough attention he gave everything—mapping her responses, learning what made her gasp and what made her moan. He discovered that the hollow behind her ear was sensitive, that she shivered when he traced the curve of her waist, that she made a desperate little sound when he rolled her nipple between his fingers.
