His teeth never let me go but they never hurt me either. He rolls us so that I'm on my back and pushes both knees between mine, knocking my thighs apart. Spreading me beneath him. His teeth finally release and he licks away the small indents left in my soft flesh. One hand braces his body above mine so he doesn't crush me while the other slowly touches and smooths down my body until he reaches the apex of my thighs. His eyes watch me intently, clearly waiting to see if I push him off or tell him no. I don't. My heart pounds in my ears in time with the pulse beating between my legs. Everything feels like it's surging with electricity.
The pads of his claw-tipped fingers rub over me slowly and I'm embarrassed by how much wetness he must already feel there. Did I think this is how I'd react? No. But here we are. I'm practically melting beneath him when his finger finds my clit above the silk of my panties and circles in slow, sure motions. My toes curl and my lips part as an embarrassing moan slips out.
Something long and thick and hot presses against my right leg. My eyes open, half-hooded and heavy. I tilt my head down and realize that of course he's naked. I've seen what happens to his clothes when he shifts. His cock bobs heavily, brushing my thigh every time he moves, weeping at the tip, a bead of moisture sliding over my skin.
He pulls his hand away from my center and I whine at the loss before that same hand wraps around his shaft. He looks at me, big green eyes almost feral with need, but there's a question there too. Permission.
I nod. Everything feels hot and not close enough. I tilt my hips upward and let him rub the head of his cock over my shorts-covered slit.
My fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck and squeeze. He lets go of himself and uses just his hips to glide the length of him over my center, over and over. I throw my head to the side, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip between my teeth. I'm so lost in it that I miss the faint popping sounds. Or feel the slight shift above me. All I feel is his cock rubbing me so good I may come through my bottoms.
"Ivy," a hoarse voice says above me.
My eyes fly open. Green eyes still looking at me but smaller now, one inconsistent mossy color.
Conall is human and breathing heavily. His thighs still hold my legs open and his hard length is still pressed against me. One wrong move and he'd be in.
"Ivy, I—" he begins, smoothing my hair back and taking a breath. Suddenly, faced with the man and not the sweet monster, everything that just happened comes flooding in. One moment sticking out the most.
"Am I your mate, Conall?" I ask outright, already knowing the answer from our disastrous conversation last night. With his cock pressed against me and his fingers in my hair and his eyes on me like I'm something precious.
His expression falters, eyes shuttering.
He doesn't have to say a word. His hound did. But he can't.
I push on his chest. "Get off."
He rolls without hesitation and I get up, grab some clothes from my dresser, and slam the bathroom door behind me.
"Freckles."
I hate how his voice breaks on the nickname. It pulls at me in ways I don't expect. My forehead comes to rest against the door. Silent tears track down my face. It's unfair how safe and open I feel when he's monstrous, and how guarded and broken I feel when it's just Conall, looking at me.
I am his mate. And he doesn't want me. Just another man who doesn't choose me.
I can't do it again.
Conall
I've broken something. Something essential.
I can scent the soft salt of her tears through the door. Hear her carefully even breaths.
I've been so focused on keeping clear lines, on getting out of a binding ancestral promise, that I let myself deny the essential truth right in front of me. I let my stubborn pride drive me to the point where I've hurt her. My mate. The denial has been lifting slowly, my hound making it impossible to sustain. Now I see it clearly.
I listen as she showers, the water stops and the blow dryer starts. And I sit, thinking about every single thing I've done wrong and exactly how I'm going to fix it.
I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, when she comes out of the bathroom. She smells clean and distinctly herself. She's wearing jeans and a pink blouse with little flowers on the bodice. Nomakeup, and I love how open her face is without it. The freckles across her nose are darker without foundation covering them.
I breathe out slowly to keep from getting lost in the sight of her.
She won't meet my eyes. She moves straight for the door.
This has to end. I reach out and place three fingers gently on her wrist. She stops, which surprises me, though she still won't look at me.
"Ivy, I'm sorry I didn't tell you."
"You lied," she whispers, and there's something so fragile in it that my chest aches.
