"Please," I beg, pushing my ass back into him. "Please, Alpha. I want it. I want all of you."
Cliff exhales slowly against the back of my neck, and I feel the decision move through his body before he makes it.
"Hold on," he growls quietly.
I grab the shower rail with both hands and close my eyes.
He releases my cock and grabs both my hips, fingers pressing in hard enough to bruise. His strokes change, becoming something different. Slower. More deliberate. Like he's trying to work his knot into me, grinding forward with each thrust, pushing that thick swollen base against my entrance over and over until I'm shaking so hard the shower rail is the only thing keeping me upright.
"Cliff!" I cry, but hedoesn't answer.
He keeps going, grinding and pushing, and I feel the exact moment his knot goes completely hard.
Holy fuck. He’s going to fully knot me.
"Are you ready?" His voice is barely recognizable. Rough and low and stripped of everything civilized.
"Yes," I whimper, refusing to back down. “Give it to me.”
Then he drives forward one final time, snapping his hips and popping his knot so deep my entire body jolts.
The pressure is so absolute and consuming that I scream against the tile, the sound echoing off every surface in the bathroom. His arms band around my waist, crossing over my stomach, pulling me back flush against his chest, and he holds me there, completely still, both of us breathing hard in the steam.
The knot pulses inside me, thick and unyielding, and I feel him start to come. Long, shuddering waves of it, his whole body shaking against my back, his face pressed into the curve of my neck.
A broken sound rolls out of his chest that I feel more than hear, deep and guttural and nothing like the controlled, tender mate I know.
My own orgasm hits me somewhere in the middle of his, pulled out of me by the pressure and the fullness, and I come all over the shower wall with a sound that's very close to a sob.
For a long moment neither of us moves.
The water runs.
The steam curls.
And Cliff's arms hold me together while I figure out how to breathe again.
How the fuck did Elowen survive this?
The Auto Yard
Elowen
The Marchetti AutoSalvage shop smells like motor oil and that dusty warmth of a building that has been used hard for a very long time.
I'm perched on the edge of a workbench along the far wall, my legs dangling, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that Perrin made me the second we walked in the door.
I'm wearing a pair of short shorts, one of my old T-shirts from college, and my favorite pair of tennis shoes with worn, cushioned soles. They're the most comfortable things I own, and Iwillbe buried in them.
A Camaro sits in the center bay, its hood up, the engine exposed and the transmission pulled apart on a rolling cart beside it. It's a beautiful car underneath the rust, all long lines and wide body. I can see exactly why the owner has been patient about getting it back.
"Hand me the three-eighths," Perrin says from somewhere underneath it.
Raff, who is leaning against the driver's side with his arms crossed and a shop towel over his shoulder, looks at the tool chest, looks at me, then looks back at the tool chest.
"You know where it is," he says.
"I know where everything is," Perrin says. "I'd really like someone to hand it to me."
