It does not.
Maybe because today he proved mine does not have to mean silent. Or smaller. Or carried behind him like luggage. Maybe because his cock is currently making resistance difficult. Meaningless.
“Yours,” I whisper.
His rhythm breaks for half a breath. Then he thrusts harder.
My ass skids on his hands. He slams me into a wall. A painting hits the floor. His hand slides between us. His thumb finds my clit, slick and precise, and the whole room flashes white at the edges.
“Skylor.”
He lowers his forehead to mine. “Come for me, Editor-in-Chief.”
Oh, that smug alien bastard.
A laugh breaks through my moan, then shatters as his thumb circles harder. The orgasm coils fast, fed by the bond, by his body, by the sight of him holding back the worst of himself all day and giving me the best of himself now. His knot swells at the base, pressing, stretching, demanding.
He slows with a snarl.
I slap his butt with my feet. “Do not stop.”
His eyes blaze. “Say it.”
“I want the knot.”
“Again.”
“I want you locked inside me.”
His control fractures. He drives deep. The knot presses against me, thick and relentless. My body resists for one stretchedsecond, then opens around him as pleasure breaks. He seats fully, and the knot and his sheath lock us together. The fullness brands me as much as his bite. Primal. Alien. His teeth close over the mark.
The bite is not deep enough to remake the bond. It doesn’t need to be. It wakes what is already there, sending heat through every hook connecting us. I come, clamping around him, nails digging into his back, my cry exploding against his shoulder. He follows with a rough sound, hips grinding deep, heat spilling into me in pulsing waves while his hands shake against my skin.
For a while, neither of us moves. My forehead rests against his chest. His heart hammers my ear. The bond shifts into something warm and heavy.
Finally, I say, “Your legal team is going to need therapy.”
His low laugh quivers through me. “They are compensated well.”
“You are terrible.”
“I am yours.”
I lift my head. His face is softer now, but not less intense. Never less. He looks at me the way he did across the room, as if the crowd, the company, the planet all become smoke once I enter. The fantasy of that look could drown a woman.
The work is learning to own it. Accept it.
I wiggle a bit, and he arches a brow. “Going somewhere?”
“I guess not.” I smile up at him, cup the side of his face and add, “Not ever. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
He presses the softest of kisses to my lips. “Where you belong, my love. Where you’ll always belong.”
My eyes sting. “Prince Blueberry, did you just admit you love me?”
“Princess Blueberry, how could I not?” He grins, but then his face turns serious. “On Earth one sun is enough to explain light. It is not. Not where I come from. Not for what you are to me.You are not one bright thing, Beatrice. You are the whole sky catching fire.”
“Well, who’d have thought that a blue alien prince is just a poet?”
