“Look at you,” he growls against my lips, his hand sliding up to tangle in my braids, forcing my head back so he can watch my face as he fucks me. “Taking me so well. Such a good girl for your Alpha.” His words are filthy, intoxicating, and I can feel myself clenching around him, my body responding to the praise like it’s oxygen. “That’s it. Take it all. Take me.”
I can’t think, can’t breathe, all I can do is feel. The stretch of him inside me, the way his hips snap against mine, the way his breath hitches when I clench around him. My fingers dig into his shoulders, my nails bite into his skin as I hang on for dear life, my body coils tighter and tighter with each thrust.
“Maceo, I’m—” The words dissolve into a whimper as he shifts his angle, hitting that perfect spot inside me that has stars bursting behind my eyelids. His hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit with unerring precision, circling it in time with his thrusts.
“Cum for me,” he commands, his voice a dark promise. “Let me feel you milk my cock. Let everyone hear you scream my name.”
I do. My body shatters around him, my orgasm crashing over me like a wave, dragging me under as I cry out his name, my voice raw and broken. Maceo groans, his hips stuttering as he follows me over the edge, his cock pulses inside me as he spills himself deep, his teeth sink into the crook of my neck, hard enough to break skin, to leave his mark behind. A brand.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our ragged breathing, his body trembles against mine, his cock still twitches inside me. Then, slowly, he pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes soften, the feral edge gives way to something tender.
“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice rough but sure. His thumb brushes over my cheek, catching a tear I didn’t even realize had fallen. “I don’t care how long it’s been. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. When you know, youknow.”
The words settle into my chest, warm and heavy, like a promise. I swallow hard, my throat tight. “How can you be so sure?”
His lips quirk into a smile, soft and possessive all at once. “Because the thought of losing you makes me want to burn the world down.” His hand slides down to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip. “Because every time I look at you, I feel like I’ve finally found something I didn’t even know I was missing.” His voice drops to a whisper, his forehead resting against mine. “Because you’re mine, Keisha, and I’m yours. That’s all that matters.”
I exhale shakily, my heart pounding wildly from the need to reveal my own truth. “I love you too,” I whisper, the words feeling too small for the enormity of what I’m feeling.
Maceo’s smile widens, his eyes glowing with that same Alpha pride that always makes my stomach flip. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to my lips before pulling back. Sorting out his clothes, he turns to me, his hands gentle as he helps me pull myself back together. My legs are unsteady, my body still humming with the aftershocks of what we just did, and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up as I wobble slightly.
Maceo chuckles, the sound rich and warm, his arm sliding around my waist to steady me.
“I hope you’re proud of yourself, Wolfie,” I tease, my voice still breathless.
He just beams, unrepentant. “Always.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. How can there be, when he’s looking at me like I’m the most precious thing in the world? I lean into him, my head resting against his shoulder for a moment, breathing him in.
“Come on, Beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Let’s get out there before Sir comes looking for you.”
I nod, letting him lead me back toward the warmth and light of the festival, my body still thrumming with the echoes of his touch, my heart full in a way I never thought possible. As we step into the crowd, his hand possessively on the small of my back, I can feel the weight of his claim, his scent on my skin, his mark on my soul. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
By the time Maceo and I step out from the back of the shop, arms full of crates stacked with bottled tinctures and labeled jars, the town has transformed completely.
What had been scattered movement and half-finished setups earlier now pulses with life, like a heartbeat finally finding its rhythm. The entire street has awakened.
Lights stretch across the narrow thoroughfare in warm strands, crisscrossing from building to building like golden spider silk, their bulbs flicker on in sequence as the sun dips lower behind the mountains. Each illumination seems timed perfectly, as if the town itself is conducting an orchestra of light. Lanterns hang from posts and doorways, their glow soft and honey-colored, casting everything in a kind of magic that has nothing to do with spells and everything to do with pure intention. Paper decorations flutter in the evening breeze, deep crimsons and burnished golds that echo the colors of autumn and the legendary red spring that gives our town its name.
The air hums with the laughter and anticipation of the celebration to come, voices layer over each other in comfortable chaos. Children’s giggles rise above the deeper rumble of adult conversation, punctuated by the occasional bark of delight from the shifted wolves already weaving through the growing crowd. Magic and the people who wield it exist here in perfect balance.
Sir is already perched on top of my booth table like he owns it. His tail is curled neatly around his paws as he surveys the street with the kind of imperial judgment only he can manage.
“You’re late,”he says with that particular tone of disapproval I’ve come to recognize over the past few weeks.
“We are not late,” I mutter under my breath as I set the crate down carefully, adjusting one of the bottles that shifted during the walk. The glass is cool beneath my fingers, each vessel containing hours of careful brewing and intention. “We are fashionably on time.”
“You’re disheveled,”he adds, entirely unimpressed.
“That is not my fault,” I reply, deliberately avoiding eye contact with his accusatory stare while smoothing down the front of my dress.
Maceo snorts beside me, setting his own crate down with a solid thud that makes several bottles rattle in protest. “You arguing with him again?”
“He started it,” I say, pointing an accusing finger at Sir, who merely lifts his chin with regal disdain.
“I always start it,”Sir replies, entirely unapologetic, his tail flicking once in what might be amusement.
Maceo just shakes his head, unable to hear Sir’s sarcastic commentary but clearly reading the dynamic between us perfectly. The corner of his mouth lifts as he reaches for one of the jars and inspects the handwritten label with genuine interest. “You’re both impossible.”
