Page 50 of Below the Shadow of the City

“I was jealous of my friends who had parents who were still alive, kids that young don’t talk about those things, so I internalized a lot.”

“You wouldn’t know it from talking to you though,” I note.

“Exactly, I didn’t let anyone know. It didn’t catch up with me until I was much older, and let me tell you, dealing with emotions at twenty that you should have dealt with at eleven is not a fun time.” I nod and continue looking at the photo, little Maddox didn’t deserve all that heartbreak so young. I try to imagine what Maddox could have been like when he was processing all this belatedly, it’s difficult to picture him hurting or angry. He’s so open and well-adjusted, and he obviously worked hard to get to that place.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “You deserved better. You deserved someone to care for you and listen.”

“I know I did, now all I can do is accept that I’ve grown through it, and I can be that person for someone so no one has to deal with things alone like I had to.” His comment is pointed. My emotions have always been simmering on the back burner, the heat calibrated to ensure it never bubbles over.

We run out, grab sushi, and bring it back to his place to talk more. He puts on a true crime docuseries neither of us have seen, and we watch it in comfortable silence. My head rests on his chest as we lay on his couch together. I listen to his heartbeat, feel the rise and fall of his chest, and trail my fingers in swirls on his forearm while he runs his claws through my hair. It grows late, time passes without either of us looking at the clock. Eventually, I know I should go back to my apartment for the night. I adjust myself and straighten on the couch.

He rakes a hand through his mane and stares at me through hooded eyes. “You don’t have to leave, if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to leave…” but it’s getting late, I have to work tomorrow, I shouldn’t be doing this. Over and over the logical part of my brain tries to find holes in the plans he makes for us. He lays his palm on my thigh and I glance up at him.

“Then don’t, stay here tonight,” he moves towards my neck, his muzzle finding itself wedged in the column of skin between my chin and shoulder. He nips at my jugular, as his teeth graze my skin I tremor beneath him. “Stay, please,” he whimpers into me.

“I will,” I breathlessly exhale as my chest tightens. I don’t need to think about leaving early for work tomorrow morning or the fact I don’t have any fresh clothes here. It’ll be like our first night all over again.

I shrug my jacket off and it lands on the floor in a heap. The hemline of my dress skates upward as we move on one another. “I don’t know how you do this to me,” I mutter as he draws kisses up my arm. “No one has made me feel like this.” Each kiss perfectly blends the cool of his nose, the sharpness of his fangs, and the heat of his lips.

Maddox shushes me, “don’t think, just be. I will do whatever you want me to do to you if you’ll let me.”

“Do whatever you want, I don’t care,” I whine. “As long as it’s with you.”

“Now you’re speaking my language,” he growls. “I’m going to fuck your perfect cunt right here on the couch, and while my knot is buried deep inside you, I’m going to carry you to the shower and wash your hair and tease your clit, and you’ll be beside me buried beneath my blankets before I’ll release you from my cock. But you need to tell me if you want that.”

I bite my lip and feverishly nod.

“With your words, Sigrid,” he groans, he grinds his body along mine. I feel his cock pressing at the zipper of his jeans. I grasp it above the stiff fabric and his eyes roll back.

“Please, Maddox, I want you to fuck me, I want our bodies to be locked together. I. Want. You.” He doesn’t say another word, instead he roars low and helps me undress.

He gets up to head to his bedroom to grab a condom.

“I’m on birth control now,” I tell him. I’d gotten on it shortly after our first encounter. Just in case we would be meeting again, even if I told myself over and over that we wouldn’t. He nods affirmatively and hops back on the couch.

My hands pull his shirt over his head, my arms reach as high as they can go and I run my fingers up and down his bare chest. He grips my wrists and pulls my hands off his body and firmly places them at my side. “Let me touch you, please,” he says. I nod my head in agreement, settling myself onto the leather cushion. He lingers above me, staring, plotting his next movement.

His palms settle around my waist, and he rubs his thumbs in circles on my hip bones. His head ducks low and he drags his muzzle from my navel up my sternum. There are so many sensations happening at once, sharp claws, rough palms, wet tongue, soft nose, furry chin. I whine for him.

“You love the feeling of my tongue on your skin, don’t you,” he rumbles. “Do you like feeling like you’re my prey, Sigrid?”

“Mmmhhmmm,” I moan, “more, more.” I beg him. He moves his hands up my body and pinches a nipple between two claws before sucking on it. His other hand moves between my legs, his curled knuckle spreads me open and the pad of his thumb circles my clit.

“You will be my undoing, Sigrid Larson, your taste will linger on my tongue forever if I can help it,” he moves his face back down and buries his muzzle between my legs, his flat, wide, tongue covering almost all of my slit. His tongue curls and moves in soft thrusts and I quake, he places his thumb back on my clit and rubs in rhythm with his tongue.

“Maddox,” I cry, “I’m going to—” He nods his head feverishly, and I wrap my legs around his shoulders. I clutch his horns, dragging myself further into his face, seeking out the wild sensations his body provides me.

“Sigrid, ride me, please, use me,” he begs when he resurfaces for a moment. “Come on me.”

I come apart on him, my thighs tighten around his face and I crash.

Maddox drags his thumb along my bottom lip, running my own wetness on my skin. He then sticks his thumb in his own mouth, licking my taste off of him with a satisfied moan. His eyes close, and he inhales deeply, returning his hands around my waist.

I think the fanfiction writers would refer to this as “velvet wrapped steel.” As I stare at his cock, those words feel, I don’t know, inadequate? There isn’t steel beneath that sheath of smooth, dark, skin, instead it’s red hot iron. The molten metal swirls in my gut when I touch him, or even look at him.

He teases his cock around my entrance, I shake beneath him. He slides into me, pausing his speaking as he parts me open. His length slides into me, and while the feeling of him filling me will never be something I’m tired of, it’s familiar now. I whine beneath him, moving my hips into him, adjusting myself into the precise position that feels so, so right.