Page 18 of His Lucky Charm

He positioned himself between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. Instead of pushing forward, however, he paused, eyes searching my face. “You’re sure? About all of this? About me?”

The vulnerability in his question touched something deep inside me. This powerful creature, this Guardian, was asking for reassurance from me—a mere human who’d stumbled into his world.

“I’m sure,” I said softly, cupping his face between my palms. “I want this. I want you—wolf and all.”

Something shifted in his expression—relief, joy, and hunger all mingled together. He turned to press a kiss to my palm, then slowly, inexorably pushed forward.

The initial stretch burned despite my thorough preparation—he was substantial in all forms, it seemed. I forced myself to relax, breathing through the discomfort until it melted into pleasure as he bottomed out inside me.

“Fuck,” he groaned, arms trembling with the effort of holding himself still. “So tight. So perfect.”

I wrapped my legs around his waist, drawing him impossibly deeper. “Move. Please.”

He obeyed, establishing a rhythm that was agonizingly controlled. Each thrust was deliberate, angled to brush against the spot that made me see stars. I clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into muscle as he gradually increased the pace.

“Mine,” he growled, the word punctuated by a particularly deep thrust. “Say it.”

“Yours,” I gasped, beyond embarrassment, beyond thought. “I’m yours, Rafferty.”

His control snapped. His movements became harder, faster, more primal. One large hand slid beneath me to grip my ass, changing the angle to hit my prostate with every thrust. The other wrapped around my neglected cock, stroking in counterpoint to his movements.

“No one else gets this,” he said roughly. “No one else touches you like this. Just me. Only me.”

“Only you,” I agreed, racing toward the edge. “Always you.”

He leaned down to claim my mouth in a kiss that was more possession than affection. When he pulled back, his eyes were fully gold, a hint of fang visible at the corners of his smile.

“Come for me, Eliot,” he commanded. “Let me feel you.”

It was the combination of his voice, his hand, and the slight scrape of those not-quite-human teeth against my throat that pushed me over. I came with a shout, spilling over his fist and clenching around him as pleasure crashed through me in overwhelming waves.

Rafferty followed moments later, his release triggering a second, smaller climax that left me trembling and oversensitive beneath him. He collapsed forward, careful to brace his weight on his forearms as he buried his face in my neck, breathing deeply of my scent.

For several long moments, we lay tangled together, heartbeats gradually slowing. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes had returned to their normal green, though the satisfaction in them remained decidedly wolfish.

“Well,” I said when I could form coherent speech again, “that was… enlightening research.”

His laugh rumbled through both our bodies. “Always the academic.”

“It’s who I am,” I reminded him, then hesitated. “Is that going to be a problem? My need to understand, to analyze, to document?”

Rafferty shifted to the side, pulling me against his chest in a position that was becoming familiar. “Not as long as you remember there are some secrets that need to remain secrets.”

The reminder sobered me. “The world isn’t ready to know about werewolves, is it?”

“No.” His voice was grave. “History hasn’t been kind to those perceived as ‘other,’ Eliot. My kind has been hunted, experimented on, exterminated when discovered. Why do you think silver features so prominently in werewolf lore?”

I frowned. “I assumed it was symbolic—silver associated with the moon, purity against the beast, that sort of thing.”

“It’s literal. Silver burns us, weakens us. In sufficient quantities, it can kill.” His expression darkened. “Hunters discovered that centuries ago. Used it to great effect during the purges.”

The implications chilled me. “There were organized hunts? Like witch trials?”

“Worse, in some ways. At least accused witches sometimes survived their trials.” He shook his head. “We’ve learned to hide, to blend in. The legends that persist—the Hollywood version of werewolves—provide useful cover. Most people are looking for mindless monsters, not pub owners who get clumsy around cute professors.”

Despite the seriousness of the conversation, I smiled at his description. “I suppose I should be flattered that I disrupted your supernatural cool.”

“You should.” His fingers traced idle patterns on my shoulder. “It’s not easy to fluster a Guardian.”