Page 93 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

His are gold. Fully gold now, no gray left at all, blazing with three hundred years of patience finally spent.

He notches the blunt head of his cock against me and pushes in slow, so slow, one thick inch at a time, and he holds my gaze the whole way down, drinking in every flicker of it, and I watch his, the clench of his jaw, the tremor in his arms, the way his breath punches out of him when he’s finally seated deep. Full. Stretched around him, swollen and slick and so full there’s nowhere left for either of us to hide.

“You feel that?” he breathes. “That’s every second I made you wait.”

“Smug.”

“Accurate.”

Neither of us moves.

“Say it again,” he whispers.

“I love you.”

His whole body shudders. He pulls back and rocks into me, deep and slow, a rhythm with no urgency in it, only intent, and the drag of him inside me is so good it borders on unbearable. I hook my ankle over the back of his thigh. Tilt my hips. Take his cock deeper, until he groans like it hurts.

“Again.”

“I love you.” He drives in harder and I gasp it. “I love you, I love you…”

“Fable.” My name in his mouth is a broken thing. “You have no idea. Every morning I woke up for three centuries, and none of them had you in them, and now…” His forehead drops to mine, his rhythm faltering, going ragged. “Now they all will.”

“All of them,” I promise, and feel his control finally slip.

He moves in earnest then, long and deep, the headboard finding a rhythm against the wall, and it’s still not frantic, it’s thorough, every stroke deliberate, every stroke a word in a sentence he’s been composing for three hundred years. The pressure builds low and molten, winding tighter with each roll of his hips, and his eyes never leave mine, gold pouring into brown in the snow-light, and when I finally break it isn’t shattering.

It’s melting. Everything in me going liquid and golden at once, my body pulsing around him in slow, deep waves, his name spilling out of me in pieces. He follows me down with a sound I feel in my bones, grinding deep, spilling into me, whispering my name against my mouth, a prayer he’s only just learned the words to.

We lie tangled together afterward, catching our breath. The snow-light has shifted, gone from pale to golden as the morning ages. His hand traces lazy, precise circles on my hip, because of course even his afterglow is methodical. Somewhere on the counter, the perfect crêpes are getting cold.

I can’t bring myself to care.

“Worth it,” he says, reading my mind.

“Completely.”

From somewhere in the house comes a crash, followed by a feline shriek of triumph.

“Mario.” Orion sighs.

“He’s expressing his displeasure at being excluded.”

“He’s committing crimes.”

“Same thing.”

We lie there listening to the distant sounds of destruction, what might be pages tearing, something heavy hitting the floor, more outraged yowling, and neither of us moves to stop it.

“Should we…” I start.

“He’ll tire himself out.”

“What if he’s destroying something valuable?”

“Then I’ll replace it.” His arm tightens around me. “I’m not moving.”

“Okay.”