Page 22 of Talk Howly to Me

Her directness shattered the last of his restraint as she reached between them, her small hand wrapping around his cock, guiding him to her slick entrance. Then she sank down. It was an exquisite torture. An invasion of perfect, tight heat. He gritted his teeth, muscles cording in his neck as she took him inch by devastating inch, her body stretching to accommodate him until she was fully seated and her hips were flush against his.

She was so tight, so perfect, so his.

Suddenly, a sharp, discordant thought pierced the haze of pleasure.

Ronan.

This was happening without him. The nascent triad mate bond, a fragile, humming thread between the three of them, vibrated with the intensity of this connection.

Was Ronan feeling this?

But the spike of guilt was instantly drowned out by a surge of primal, selfish triumph. This was his moment. His choice. His need. For once, he wasn't stepping aside. He was taking what he wanted, what she was giving him.

All thought dissolved as Sloane began to move. She planted her hands on his shoulders, her head falling back, and rode him with a wild, untamed rhythm that spoke of a lifetime of pent-up longing. His hands found her hips, his grip iron-tight, meeting her thrust for thrust.

"Take what you need, Sloane," he commanded, his voice rough with strain. "Don't hold back."

And she didn't. She moved faster, her body a symphony of desperate friction as he thrust up, driving deeper, and her cry of pleasure told him he'd found a spot that unraveled her. Then he leaned forward, capturing a hardened nipple in his mouth and sucking hard as she rode him, and the dual sensations made her sob his name. The mate bond wasn't just humming now—it was singing, a resonant chord of pleasure and connection that vibrated in his very soul and he felt her orgasm cresting quickly.

"Let go," he breathed against her skin, a command laced with desperate tenderness. "Come for me, Sloane."

That was the key. Her orgasm detonated with a violence that stole his breath, and she convulsed around him, her inner walls clamping and pulsing rhythmically around his cock in waves of devastating intensity. A broken cry tore from her throat as she buried her face against his neck, her body trembling uncontrollably.

That was his undoing. The feel of her shattering around him, the raw trust in her surrender, broke the last dam within him. With a final, deep thrust that seated him to the hilt, his own release roared through him. Pleasure, white-hot and absolute, ripped through his body as he spilled himself inside her, his own groan muffled against her skin. He held her tight through the aftershocks, their bodies slick with sweat and their hearts hammering a frantic, synchronized rhythm.

As the world slowly pieced itself back together, she pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were dazed, sated, beautiful. Then she leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep and profoundly grateful.

When they parted, she whispered against his lips, "Thank you for that. That was… amazing."

He didn't have words. He just brushed a sweat-damp strand of hair from her cheek. Then she stood up, her legs slightly unsteady, and pulled him up from the couch. Wordlessly, she led him by the hand across the hardwood floor, past the dying fire, to the massive four-poster bed.

They climbed in together, the cool sheets a shock against their heated skin. Kozue pulled her into his arms, tucking her back against his chest, her body fitting against his as if carved from the same stone. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, breathing in her scent—now mingled irrevocably with his own.

"Rest," he murmured, the command softened into a plea.

She sighed, a sound of deep contentment, and melted against him.

In the dark, with her warmth solid and real in his arms, Kozue allowed himself the forbidden fantasy. He pretended this was forever. That she was his. That she would never leave.

The constant ache of putting others first finally, blissfully quieted. For this one night, he had taken what he wanted, and it felt impossibly right.

NINE

SLOANE

Sloane woke up to the scent of pine and rain, and the lingering warmth of another body against her own. The sun sliced through a gap in the heavy curtains, painting a golden stripe across the rumpled sheets of the impossibly large bed. She reached out instinctively for the solid warmth that had been wrapped around her all night, her hand searching the space beside her.

But her fingers found only cool linen.

She opened her eyes fully, the sleepy contentment evaporating like morning mist as she realized Kozue was gone. The side of the bed where he'd slept was neatly smoothed, as if he'd carefully extracted himself to avoid disturbing her.

A familiar, hollow pang bloomed in her chest. The familiar feeling of things she was starting to want disappearing. The job that fell through after she finally felt settled. The foster family whose circumstances changed right when she'd started calling their couch 'her spot.' The fleeting hope, then the inevitable loss. She sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist, and looked at the indentation on his pillow.

Of course he's gone, she told herself. You told him to pretend for one night. And he gave you a perfect night. Stop expecting a sunrise after a one-night stand.

It was a practiced script. It had played in her head countless times before. The rational part of her brain knew it was better this way. But the rest of her felt a raw, stupid hurt that scraped against her ribs.

She pushed the sheets aside and stood up. The polished hardwood floor was cool under her bare feet as she walked through the opulent suite, the morning light making the space feel strangely sterile and empty. Her gaze landed on the sprawling sitting area by the stone fireplace. Her clothes were scattered near the massive sectional where she had the most passionate encounter of her life, the scene a silent, chaotic testament.