She turns in my arms so we’re facing each other. My hands settle on her hips automatically. Hers rest on my shoulders. Up close, the size difference between us hits me, not for the first time. I’m huge next to her. Broad shoulders. Heavy frame. Built like the damn mountain she always teases me about.
But Lark isn't fragile. She's tall enough that I don't have to bend much, solid enough that when I pull her closer she pushes back. She feels real.
My palms slide down to the firm curve of her ass and I pull her tight against me. Our bodies fit together like they were built for it. Her leg slips between mine. Then she shifts her hips forward, settling her weight against my thigh. The pressure drags slowly along the hard muscle there, like she’s testing it.
Her scent spikes, sweet caramel sharpened by her salty arousal. My hands tighten on her a fraction more. Fuck, she’s perfect when she goes soft like this.
Her mouth moves to my ear. “Silas,” she whispers.
My grip tightens.
Then she says the one thing guaranteed to finish wrecking what little control I’ve got left.
“Take me home.”
Lark
The ride home takes forever. Silas forbade me from touching him while he drove. Something about my safety. How I’m the most precious thing in his life. It was sweet.
Probably. I didn’t really listen. I was too busy wrestling my omega for control. She likes to take over when it comes to the men in this pack, but I want this to be all me.
I want Silas to know that I’m choosing him. Not biology. Not heat. Not my omega pulling me toward the nearest available alpha.
Me. Choosing him.
Because he’s him.
Silas. Big, dominant, protective alpha.
Mine.
The pack house is quiet when we get home. Silas flips on the kitchen lights and tosses his keys on the counter. Then he’s on me. He pulls me into his arms and backs me against the wall, hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
“Little bird.” His voice is rough.
My pulse jumps. Lust runs straight through me. “Actually,” I say. I slide my leg between his and rock forward, grinding against the thick muscle of his thigh. “I believe we were right about here.”
Silas growls. Then kisses me.
And oh.
My.
God.
Silas is a good kisser. But this kiss?
Jesus.
It’s possessive. Hungry. Barely controlled.
“Upstairs,” I gasp. “Now.”
I grab his hand and take the stairs two at a time, dragging him behind me. We enter through the bedroom.
I tug my shirt from my waistband and pull it over my head, tossing it to the floor. Then I turn to Silas, making quick work of the buttons on his shirt until it hangs open.
His chest is a wall of muscle and black ink. he designs wind over his shoulders and down his ribs, smooth lines and sweeping patterns flowing from one idea into the next. I want to know every single one.
