I try to find the words for what’s happening in my head, but they don’t fit. “Dina, have you ever once heard me say anything about you that wasn’t a compliment?” I say, but she’s already shaking her head.
“You don’t have to lie,” she says, voice gone soft again. “I know how people look at me. I know the look. I know I’m too big. I get it. I just want this to be over.” She wipes at her eyes, but there are no tears there. “I don’t want to be walking around town and have everyone knowing you’re just pretending.”
My brain scrambles for a moment. I want to shake her, to force her to see everything she’s not seeing. And instead I just say, “You’re beautiful.”
She makes a sound, the kind that’s meant to dismiss what I said out of hand. “You don’t have to…”
“Stop.” My voice is so rough it startles us both. “I have no reason to lie to you, Dina. You already hate me. If anything, I should be trying to get you to quit so I don’t have to see you every day and feel like I’m being eaten alive.”
She blinks, caught off guard, and for a second, the mask drops. “I don’t hate you,” she says quietly.
The words hang there, the air around us suddenly thick. I step closer. I don’t mean to, I just do, like there’s a current, and I’m not even in charge of the direction anymore. Her eyes widen, but her chin comes up stubborn, daring me to say it again or take it back.
Instead, I reach up, just enough to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and for a moment her breathing stutters. My hand lingers, thumb grazing the line of her jaw, and I expect her to flinch, to move away, or maybe I’ll crack a joke and kill whatever this is dead.
She doesn’t. I don’t. We stand our ground.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the guilt over wanting things I can’t have, but I decide to be reckless. I close the last inch and kiss her.
It’s not gentle. There’s nothing sweet or cautious about the way I do it; I want her to know I mean all of it. For a half-second, she’s rigid, arms braced as if she might shove me away, but then her fingers find the front of my shirt and twist, dragging me in harder.
The first kiss is a clash, all teeth and fury and relief. The second is worse, because she makes a small sound in the back of her throat, and the noise goes straight to my knees.
My wolf is howling inside me, desperate for skin and the way her body lines up with mine like we were built to fit this way. I slide my hands along her waist, and she shivers, the motion setting off a tremor that slides up my arms and into my chest.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper, forehead pressed to hers, but she only shakes her head, a wild, broken laugh spilling out of her.
“Shut up,” she says, and kisses me again. This time it’s different, hungrier, and more certain.
I want to slow down, to give her a chance to stop or change her mind, but she won’t let me. She yanks the hem of my shirt up, and I help her, arms over my head, and the second I’m free, she runs her hands over my chest like she’s daring me to prove I’m real.
I tug at the tie holding her soft sweater together, and it comes apart, the fabric slipping over her shoulders and down her back. I ease her jeans down, and she doesn’t stop me. The sight of her, strong and soft in all the right places, thighs thick and solid, breasts full and flushed, is enough to short-circuit my brain. She’s so much more than I let myself imagine, and for half a heartbeat, I just stare.
I start moving again, pressing her back against the kitchen table, the edge sharp against my thighs, and run my lips down her neck, across her collarbone, and lower. She grabs my hair in both fists, keeping me there, like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
I slide my hand down her stomach, slow enough to make her squirm, then between her thighs. She’s so wet it nearly undoes me, and her hips jerk against my palm, needy. I circle her clit with my thumb, teasing at first, but she whimpers, and I can tell she wants it rougher; so I give her what she wants, working her until her whole body arches up, every muscle pulled taut. She bites my name, low and guttural, and I want to hear it again and again.
I slip two fingers inside her, and she’s hot, tight, and completely perfect. She rocks against my hand, frantic now, grinding down on me as I fuck her with my fingers, each thrust bringing her closer. She’s getting louder but muffles the soundagainst my neck, and it’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. I want to see her come, want to give her that release, so I keep at it, twisting my wrist just so, and when she comes, it’s a full-body quake, her mouth open in a silent scream, her hands digging into my shoulders so hard it hurts in the best way.
I can’t wait another second. I shove my sweatpants down, hands shaking as I push her panties aside. She’s still trembling, slick and wanting, and when I bury myself in her, slowly fighting against the resistance, we both gasp; hers high and sharp, mine a curse.
I give her a moment to adjust, but she doesn’t want it. She urges me on, grinding on my cock. I begin to move, and we fuck like we’re trying to destroy the kitchen, all motion and madness, her legs wrapped tight around my waist and my hands locked on her hips, guiding her up and down, harder, deeper, as if everything that has happened between us boils down to this moment. She claws at my back, my neck, my chest, and I want her to mark me, want proof this happened, even if she regrets it.
The table creaks, shifts under us, and I grab her ass, hoisting her up so she can ride me, and she groans, head thrown back, hair wild. Every time I thrust, she moans my name, and I want to give her everything, so I do; fast, relentless, until she comes again, this time biting my shoulder to muffle the sound. I follow her over, vision blurring and growling into her neck, and for a second, I don’t know where I end, and she begins.
We collapse on the floor, tangled and panting. I palm her naked skin, feeling her racing heart, and wonder how we ended up here. I don’t regret it for a second, though, but as I feel her begin to pull away, I doubt she’ll feel the same.
Chapter 10 - Dina
There are a thousand ways to ruin a perfectly good morning, but starting it with a hangover of shame and a baby who refuses to nap feels like a classic. I push Alora’s pram down Main, pushing through the lingering haze of last night, and hope the cold morning air will at least freeze my regrets into something solid that I can chip away at later.
It’s not like I expected Caleb to chase after me. I practically vaporized the second it was over, pulling on whatever clothes I could find, barely pausing to tie my boots as I bolted out into the night. His door was left ajar behind me, and I’m pretty sure I heard him laugh, low and bitter, as I tripped over the step. That’s how I remember it, anyway, and the memory makes my skin prickle with humiliation.
When I arrived this morning, I was late; Caleb was running late, and Alora was in a mid-screaming fit. I could not have been more grateful for her distraction, as even though he started trying to say something, she drowned him out. I told him we’d talk later, but that’s the last thing I actually want to do.
How do I reconcile what I did with how I feel about Cheslem? Sleeping with him is a betrayal of everyone I loved who died, of all the suffering we endured. I literally slept with the enemy.
I check Alora, she’s still sleeping, mouth hanging open, one hand balled up in a tiny fist beside her cheek. She looks so peaceful, like nothing in the world could touch her through the layers of fleece and the cocoon of the stroller. I envy her.
