Page 87 of False Catch

But tonight, she's here. Safe. Protected. Ours, even if she doesn't fully realize it yet.

And I'll be damned if I let her go without a fight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Reese

I wake to morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains and the solid warmth of Bo's chest beneath my cheek. For the first time in days, my head doesn't pound. My shoulders don't ache with tension. The constant knot in my stomach has loosened.

Bo's still asleep, one arm wrapped possessively around me even in unconsciousness. His heartbeat is steady under my palm, his breathing deep and even. In sleep, he looks younger. The enforcer persona stripped away to reveal just a twenty-one-year-old guy who took charge when his team was falling apart.

Who took care of me when I was falling apart.

The memories of last night flood back. Not just the sex—though that was incredible—but everything else. The way he ordered me to eat. Made me cry out everything I'd been holding. Refused to let me sacrifice myself for the team's sake.

*"You are our future."*

I trace the lines of his chest, mapping the territory I claimed last night. Because that's what happened, whether he realizes it or not. He might have been giving the orders, but I claimed him just as surely as if I'd left a mark.

My hand drifts lower, following the trail of golden hair down his abs. He's already half-hard, his body responding even in sleep. The sight makes my core clench violently. After weeks of being reactive, of letting things happen to me, I want to be the one in control.

I shift down the bed carefully, not wanting to wake him yet. The sheet slides away as I move, leaving him exposed in the morning light. He's beautiful like this. All that controlled strength relaxed and vulnerable.

I take him in my mouth without preamble, and his whole body jerks awake.

"Fuck—Reese—" he groans.

I hum around him, and his hips buck involuntarily. His hand finds my hair, holding on as I work him with lips and tongue and just the edge of teeth.

"Jesus Christ," he gasps, raking his free hand over his face. "Where did you—"

I pull off long enough to say, "I had a life before Sable Ridge, Strickland," then swallow him down again.

His laugh turns into a groan as I hollow my cheeks, using every trick I learned from fumbling encounters before my world became eight Alpha rowers. Back when sex was simple exploration instead of this complicated tangle of biology and pack dynamics.

"Reese, I'm going to—"

I double down, taking him deeper, and he comes with a growl that probably scares the birds from the trees. I work him through it, swallowing everything, until he's oversensitive and pushing at my shoulders.

"Get up here," he growls, hauling me up his body.

I straddle his waist, grinning down at him. "Good morning to you, too."

"You're different this morning." His hands span my waist, thumbs stroking over my ribs.

"I slept. I ate actual food. I cried out approximately three weeks of stress." I lean down to kiss him, breath be damned. "I feel human again."

"You feel perfect," he corrects, then flips us in one smooth motion.

Before I can protest that it's my turn to be in charge, he's kissing down my throat, across my collarbone, taking his sweet time like we have all day. Which I suppose we do until afternoon practice.

"Bo—"

"Shh. My turn."

He works me over with the same deliberate patience as last night, but this time I'm not exhausted and overwhelmed. This time I can participate, arching into his touch, pulling his hair when he does something particularly good with his tongue.

"I need you," I gasp when he's reduced me to writhing desperation. "Now."