Page 21 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

“Well, good,” she says with a sleepy laugh. “I’m glad I got more than two minutes with you. Would hate to knock off a star from your reviews. Mm… I’m mentally drafting now. Great dick, doesn’t last as long as described. 2/5.”

It’s hard to imagine Cyrus as anyone other than the man he is right now. Has he always been the handsome, southern charmer that all the girls love, or was there ever a point where he needed to grow into himself? Her mind conjures an image of Cyrus with pimples and gangly limbs, too tall for his own damn good.

A smile curves in spite of the heaviness of her eyelids. She should probably force herself out of bed. But it’s as if her limbs have been weighed down by an invisible force. What time is it, anyway? She’s afraid to ask.

“Oh, is that right?” Cyrus scoffs and holds his hand to his chest in mock offense. At least, she thinks he does. Her sight starts to blur from behind her lashes, her vision darkening in the corners.

“Mmhm.”

Cyrus chuckles beside her. Soon, a comforting warmth drapes over her body. It’s soft, easy to curl into, and smells so distinctively like him. Alana cuddles into it, chasing the comfort. The next thing she knows, darkness falls over the room and sleep embraces her with open arms.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CYRUS

Well I’ll be damned.

Cyrus takes a long, deep breath, and a scoff of laughter slips out with the exhale; it’s laced with incredulity. He glances over his shoulder, taking in the figure sleeping soundly on his bed, curled around his pillow as if worried someone might take it from her. Even in the darkness, Cyrus can make out the part in her lips as she breathes, the slight pinch of her brow. There’s an innate need to smooth the crease that settles between them, along with whatever worry may be causing it. Although, the thought of doing so is one he immediately dismisses. Rather than act on any foolish impulses, he shakes his head and leans against the balcony. The wide expanse of city lights and the mountains have disappeared into the distance, and the open air breezes past Cyrus. He wiggles his nose against the abrasive scents that assault his delicate senses— smog and smoke and whatever repulsive things people tend to let rot in hidden alleyways.

He much preferred the scent of pine and wildflowers, or the crisp water from the lakes by his property. Back where he could breathe without overwhelming his nose and feel the dirt beneath his boots instead of unforgiving concrete. But there were upsides to city life, too. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth when one of them snores behind him.

Miss Alana Darling.

The first time he’d seen her, she’d stopped him dead in his tracks, almost causing him to fall face-first into cobblestone streets. It had been her grand opening; the sidewalks were crowded with folks who’d gathered in eager anticipation for the ribbon-cutting ceremony. Cyrus had passed that bakery a dozen times before, always peeking through the arched windows to steal a glance at its progress on his way home to his ranch. He didn’t have time to join the opening festivities and had stepped off the sidewalk to get around the crowd. But then, the ribbon was cut, and beyond the cheers was a sound so sweet it caused his head to turn—Alana. She was in a pretty pink dress, laughing so bright and bouncing on the pads of her feet as she ushered everyone inside.

“Thank you so much for coming!” she had beamed, her eyes shining like starlight.

It was overcast that day, but he’d hardly been able to tell by the brightness of that girl. That was the end of the line for him. Her smile had carried him there every day since.

Cyrus sighs, replaying her name again. It coats his tongue like melted sugar; sweet like those moans of hers had been. Sweet like the sound of her voice when she came, and sweet like the look in her eyes as she lay there naked beneath him, so vulnerable. She could’ve ruined him. She’d been so tight, her body pressing against the base of his knot, practically begging him to tether them together. And, fuck, he’s never wanted anything more. He tells himself he was being conscious of Alana’s well-being by refusing the urge. That they hadn’t explicitly discussed it, and that her body wasn’t quite ready for it, and he didn’t want to hurt her. While that had been part of it, it wasn’t the only reason.

No, he’d been afraid of what it might do to him if he crossed that line. Afraid of his inability to recover. Because how could he walk away after that?

Admittedly, knotting is a service he’s been paid handsomely for; a fan favorite that he can humbly say fosters some very, very happy customers. However, it came at a cost. Not just for his clients, but for himself. Like it or not, it was his anatomy. Knotting connected him to the person, even if temporarily. Which had never been much of a problem, really. He’d spend a day or two a bit restless, with an anxious buzz that he had to wait out until things went back to normal. Alana is different, though. A twinge forms behind his ribs; tight, constricting. Not unpleasant. Just…unfamiliar. And that within itself, is a problem. It’s a connection that would be harder to sever.

With several years of experience under his belt, Cyrus has managed a pretty decent routine. And with routine, came a measure of normalcy. He’d have sex, fulfill whatever needs he was paid to, then rinse and repeat. There’s always been a sense of pride that lingers afterward, a swell in his chest when his companions are clinging to consciousness. He’s considered it a sign of a job well done, an accomplishment that he could be content with. But the emotion blooming inside of him isn’t pride alone. It’s an urge to crawl in bed beside Alana and curl his body protectively over her own, tuck his face into the side of her neck where he can lose himself in her. And it’s stronger than anything he’s felt in a long time.

Ugh, what’s wrong with me?

The question plays through his mind on repeat, louder each time. It takes a considerable amount of restraint not to drown the words out with a drink. Cyrus picks at the peeling paint on his balcony, flakes of black flurrying in the wind. A couple walks in the street below, all intoxicated giggles and uncoordinated touches. They fall into each other, tripping over themselves and someone else in the process. Two happy, oblivious fools excited to be in each other’s company.

If ever asked, he’d deny his similar excitement when Alana’s name popped up in his email. It was the same rush he felt walking into that bakery and seeing her smile first thing in the morning, when her eyes lit up like he somehow brightened up her day. He had doubts about whether the name he stared at for far too long was connected to the same Alana he’d come to recognize. Then, he saw her through that crowded bar, all dolled up as she quietly nursed her cosmopolitan. And, suddenly, the Gods were real.

Cyrus rubs his hands across his face as though trying to physically clean himself of this reaction. In the distance, lightning illuminates through the clouds, bright with the promise of a storm. His jaw clenches, and he steps back inside. Tiptoeing, he makes sure Alana is covered up before heading to the living room to sleep on the couch.

Whatever he’s feeling, it should be gone by morning.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ALANA

Bleary-eyed, Alana blinks, her vision slowly clearing to a room that isn’t hers and to a bed that’s far emptier than it was when she’d gone to sleep last night. She’s covered by a cotton comforter and a familiar scent lingers in the air. Sitting up, she rubs the sleep from her eyes with a long yawn and a stretch that she immediately regrets. A deep ache roots itself in every muscle, painful yet satisfying. The kind people get after a great workout. Or, in what’s usually Alana’s case, a successful session with a sizable toy.

That’s when it hits her.

The memory of clawed hands and sharp teeth grazing her skin. Of whispered praise and a southern drawl that sent her self-respect into the trash. Alana chews her bottom lip to fight the smile that threatens to surface.

Holy shit. She had sex.