Page 51 of Below the Shadow of the City

He pulls himself out in a slow languid motion, and leaves me open, gaping for him. He growls, “I’m not going to harp on how flawless you are to me, but in case you need a reminder you are…” He thrusts himself back inside me.

“So.” Thrust.

“Fucking.” Thrust.

“Perfect.” Thrust.

I cry out for him, grasping at the fur on his arms while he’s inside me. His groans are absurdly hot, just like everything else he does. I am completely obsessed, possessive of his body as he sinks into me.

“You’re going to take my knot over and over again, aren’t you?” he hisses as he continues to thrust. “There’s a part of you that knows you’re never going to be satisfied without me, isn’t there?”

I nod my head in agreement, because he’s totally right. The inevitability of sex without Maddox’s perfectly formed cock is a bleak future.

His cock jolts, and I’m overwhelmed again by the combined sensation of his hot body and his knot swelling and his cum pouring into me. My inner walls clench around him, gripping onto his cock while I cry out for him. We both twitch through aftershocks together and he pulls me tight against him.

A few moments pass for us to catch our breath, and wordlessly he lifts me while I’m still wrapped around his knot. It rubs against my clit and I moan quietly from the sensation it produces with each step he takes.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you,” he chuckles.

“Never in my life did I think this was an option, had I known before…”

“Consider it an option now,” he sharply inhales.

We enter the bathroom, and with one arm slung around my ass to keep me upright, he turns on the shower. He props me up on a small shelf carved into the wall, one that is designed to be at waist height for him. The water pours from the showerhead above, and he dips into my mouth for a kiss as the hot water covers us. His fur slicks down flat against his skin, and my hair sticks to my face, and we aren’t moving. He softly grinds his hips a few times and I moan with pleasure as his knot rubs against my clit and I feel him shift inside me.

Time passes, and he reaches behind him for the shampoo and squirts a large amount into his palm. He lathers it into him, and I watch, mesmerized by him dragging his hands across himself. Once he’s properly soaped up, he reaches both hands to my scalp and massages it into my wet hair. I close my eyes, taking in the sensation of his claws grazing my head and the warm water splashing onto us. With a few alterations of position, he rinses us both off.

He then repeats the motions with conditioner, only running it through the length of his mane and the ends of my hair. I never thought I would find it so hot to be with a man who doesn’t only know what conditioner is, but knows how to use it. He takes soap and a washcloth and washes my skin with a tenderness that makes me wonder if I’m injured without my knowledge.

Just as he promised, he dries me off, carries me to his bed, and tucks us both beneath his blankets.

“You deserve to be cared for, Sigrid, even if you might not believe you deserve it,” he grasps my waist with warm hands and dots kisses in my damp hair.

Maddox doesn’t know all of my flaws and the reasons others have left yet. And maybe once he does, it’ll just make him leave like others have. For now, this quiet moment before we part for the day is something I need to savor.

CHAPTER 21

SATURDAY, MID OCTOBER

My notebook stares up at me like it’s a blank canvas. While a year ago I considered myself something of a DaVinci in the kitchen, right now my mind is totally blank. I still could take the easy way out and supply eight recipes from my Instagram. It would be incredibly simple to scroll through, see what’s gotten the most engagement, and copy and paste. I know I shouldn’t take that route, not when I know I can do better than that.

My dreams used to be sad, limp, nearly dead things. They still are at times, but participating in this cookbook has breathed the tiniest bit of life back into them. I know how this works, I’m invited to participate among many others, and Gingham Books will select a standout from the crowd. That star will get their own contract, their own cookbook, and all the success that comes with it. Sure, I’ve been downright apathetic about 90% of the things in my life since January, but I’ve found myself handed an opportunity. And I can’t half-ass something as big as this.

I finally have the motivation and none of the brainpower for it. It’s like my entire library of baking knowledge and creativity has been emptied. I have tried and true pâte à choux, puff pastry, and pie crust recipes I can lean on, but nothing to fill them with.

It’s late in the season for the Farmer’s Market. A few unseasonably warm days have it holding on until the first frost. It’s been a while since I’ve wandered here with a specific mission. This summer I’d come far less frequently than I’d hoped to, usually opting to keep a stock of frozen items instead. Too much fresh produce had gone to rot in my fridge because I’d lost the motivation to do anything with it.

I wander among the stalls, grabbing persimmons that don’t have a purpose yet and tossing them into a tote bag I’d gotten with a magazine subscription. I’d canceled receiving the publication years ago, but the tote bag is still put to good use.

These trips are always made solo, having anyone with me is distracting. And this particular excursion is meditative as I take a break from ruminating on what Maddox had said a few days back. I don’t need to think about the bits of doubt that are still holding on, I need to examine each piece of fruit at this market like it’s a fine jewel. I have to discuss, in depth, the seasonality of the produce and the life story of the farmer who’s selling their wares. I may not be much for casual conversation until a farmer in a faded Carhartt jacket tells me about how wasps got into their strawberry crop this year and captures my attention.

“Eduardo!” I call out to one of the aforementioned Carhartt wearing farmers. “How’s it going?” He finishes a transaction and embraces me in a hug. I’ve been going to this particular farmer’s market for so long I know his father who used to run the farm. Eduardo took it over from him about five years back. I talked to him multiple times a summer since he was dating his now wife, throughout wedding planning, her pregnancy, and the first few years of his daughter’s life.

“Isabella had her first dance recital last week,” he pulls his phone from his pocket to show me a beaming toddler in a pink tutu and pigtails.

“She’s incredible!” I exclaim.

“She takes after her mother,” he grins at the photo one more time before sliding it back in his pocket. “I haven’t seen you much, I thought you were out cheating on me with some other orchard.”