I wrap my hand around myself. The grip is tight. Unforgiving.
I don’t take my time. This isn’t romance. This isn’t making love. This is a pressure valve release. This is maintenance on a machine running in the red.
I stroke.
The friction offers a sharp, grounding bite. I set a rhythm, fast, hard, utilitarian. I stare into the dark, trying to keep my mind blank. Trying to focus on the physical sensation, the simple mechanics of nerve endings and blood flow.
It doesn’t work.
The lock on my imagination shatters.
She’s there.
Not asleep in the guest room.
She’s here. In the dark with me.
The fantasy detonates.
I visualize her pinned against the glass wall of the living room, the storm raging behind her, the white snow providing the only light. I picture myself crowding her space, removing the choice, removing the distance.
In my mind, she isn’t fighting me. She’s meeting me.
I imagine the weight of my body crushing hers. I imagine her hands, those capable, surgeon’s hands, clawing at my shoulders, dragging me down. I imagine the sound she’d make if I stopped holding back. If I stopped being the protector and became the thing she recognized in the kitchen.
The wolf.
I snap my hips forward, chasing the phantom friction of her.
I imagine taking her. Burying myself so deep inside her that she forgets every rule, every fear, everything but the weight of me owning her space. I imagine the defiance in her eyes melting into a glaze of pleasure, her mouth parting, my name on her tongue as a plea.
Iris.
The name rips through my mind.
I move faster. Rougher.
I imagine the taste of her throat. The live beat of her pulse under my tongue. The scent of vanilla and sweat filling my lungs until I drown in it.
I grit my teeth, a growl vibrating deep in my throat, trapped behind my lips.
I drive myself over the edge.
The release detonates through my spine, a concussive charge of pleasure obliterating thought. My knees buckle. I brace one hand against the cold porcelain of the sink to stay upright, dragging in ragged, harsh gasps echoing too loud in the small room.
I ride out the aftershocks. The spasms of pleasure fade, leaving behind a heavy, leaden silence. I stand there, ribs heaving, sweat cooling on my forehead.
It didn’t fix it.
The pressure recedes, but the stain remains. The fantasy didn’t burn the want away; it just fed the beast. It made thehunger specific. Now I know exactly what I want to do to her. Now the images play in high-definition, seared into my cortex.
I unlock the bathroom door and step back out into the den.
I check the perimeter monitors on the wall. Green lights. All sectors secure. Thermal cameras show nothing but the white noise of the storm and the occasional heat signature of a deer moving through the tree line.
Green doesn’t mean safe. Green means he hasn’t found us yet. I know how Mercer works a problem, and it isn’t with a war room and raised voices. It’s a man sitting somewhere warm, feeding the dead boy’s last cell ping and every off-grid deed within a tank of gas into a machine, letting it grind through shell companies and utility spikes while he sleeps.
I stare at the screen, but I don’t focus on the deer. Her gaze overlays the image. Dark. Assessing. Seeing too much.
