FORTY-SEVEN
CHRISTINE
My teeth sinkdeep into Mylo’s neck as my spine curls and my knot throbs, filling him with heat.
Mylo’s gasp of pain and relief is a song, and his blood tastes like the sweetest wine as I sweep my tongue along his broken skin.
Fuck, he’s gorgeous. His fangs glint in the fiery sunset, and his ears are long and pointed. As his eyes roll back with pleasure, light dances through crystalline amber.
His expression is utterly transcendent, and I want to know what he feels, what it’s like.
And then I find out.
Because his scent hits my nose—but it’s not just his scent anymore. It’s a coastal citrus orchard abundant with ripe fruit, hanging heavy on the branch, ready to be plucked and eaten, honeyed juices rolling down chins and coating fingers. Distant thunder rolls, and the wind bears the scent of blooming flowersand the promise of rain that will nourish and soothe and become even more fruit.
“Mine,” I murmur against his neck, lips still damp with his blood. “Mine.” I kiss his jaw, his ear, wind my fingers into his hair, slide a hand behind his back to press him firmly against my chest. “Mine.” I rock my hips, loving how he clenches around me as he spills into a gentle, shivering climax, squeezing rhythmically around my knot.
His arms slide over my neck, pulling me close—then pain blossoms from my shoulder as he sinks his teeth into me, both revenge and reciprocation.
I have no gland waiting to burst, releasing a flood of hormones, but I have a wicked masochistic streak that groans with pleasure as my blood slides out from around his mouth, dripping across my skin.
His claws rake down my back, spilling more for good measure.
My omega sprawls beneath me, teeth and lips glistening with crimson, amber eyes pierced by dark slits, andnowI have seen the most beautiful thing.
“Mine,” he hisses.
I fold my mouth around his, tasting my blood on his tongue. In only a few breaths, urgent need rises again. I rut into him, knot staying tightly lodged, just the tug enough to build my pleasure.
Mylo kisses me fiercely until the bliss overwhelms him and his head tips back, falling through peak after peak as my body drains all the tension from him.
I shudder as my knot swells to its thickest yet, and I pour into Mylo again, thrusting hard.
No sooner does he let out a pained whimper than my teeth sink into his other shoulder, bursting that gland too,overwhelming years of repression with that unmistakable message:
You are mine. And you always will be.
This time, he relaxes fully. I flip us over, pulling him to rest on my chest. His legs splay around me, and he nuzzles my breast. I lay an arm across his back and run the other through his hair.
He dozes.
I watch over him.
Eventually, when the sun is far gone and a spill of stars illuminates the sky above, he stirs, voice hoarse.
“So… that’s it? My heat is over?”
I chuckle. “You’re funny, little omega.”
“Don’t call me that,” he grumbles.
I lean down and whisper next to his ear, “Why don’t you try to stop me, then?”
He lets out a half-hearted huff and nuzzles into me again.
“We have much more of this to do,” I say, now realizing how little Mylo knows about his own biology. And given how unusual he is—nearly thirty without having gone into heat—I think we’ll be learning much together.
“For how long?”
