Page 48 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

His hands venture to Alana’s waist, settling where they naturally belong. She’s still wearing her swimsuit, her skin exposed so that his thumbs can brush against the vitiligo he finds there. She’s smooth against the pads of his calloused fingers, and it takes an awful lot to keep himself from tracing those patches wherever they lead.

Some towards her back, others expanding across her chest.

They’re incredible to look at, these markings. Everything about her is. Should there really be such a thing as a divine creator, he likes to think they took their time when sculpting Alana. From her caring heart to her lush coils that he could spend a lifetime learning how to nurture. As they stand there under the warm patio fairy lights, he recognizes that beautiful isn’t a strong enough word to describe her. He’ll need to come up with something better someday.

“How about you?” A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. He spins her and brings her back to him. “Get everything you wanted?”

Alana’s arms twine around his shoulders when she returns, while Cyrus takes another step forward to close what little distance there is left. When she moves, he moves right along with her in careful, unhurried steps. As if neither had anywhere else in the world they wanted to be.

“Honestly? I think so. One of the best birthdays I’ve had, I must say.” She smiles up at him.

“Is that right?”

When Alana nods, her eyes scan his face, soft in the way they soak in every detail. “How’s your nose, by the way? Does it still hurt?”

“I’m just fine, Miss Alana.” There’s a reverence to his tone, a fondness that comes with the acceptance that he’d do anything for this woman. “Good as new.”

“Oh? That’s good then. Guess there’s no need for me to kiss it better?” Alana’s hand travels a couple of inches higher to play in his hair. Her nails scratch against his scalp, and it’s a fight not to start tapping his foot on the ground.

“I—it hurts terribly bad, actually. So, so bad. I was kinda confused for a moment there. On account of my possible concussion, you see.”

The laugh that leaves Alana could be bottled up and used to heal him when he’s sick, he swears it. It brings him back to when nothing but the two of them existed in their own little microcosm. Where they laughed until their ribs hurt on his cold kitchen floor.

It feels like a lifetime ago now.

“Poor baby,” Alana coos. She brushes a strand of hair behind his ear, then motions him forward.

Cyrus goes easily, praying she can’t hear how fast his heart is racing. Public displays of affection aren’t exactly something he’s used to. Not like this. His affections remained locked behind closed doors, left only for himself and the person who paid him for his presence. A self-inflicted fate that hadn’t bothered him all that much. Not until now. Alana, standing there, unabashedly offering to kiss him where her family could see, sets his nerves ablaze with anticipation he never thought possible. Then, her soft hands are cupping his face, and her heart-shaped lips are pressing against his nose with a kiss so loving that it hurts not to wag his tail. Alana smiles against him, trailing another kiss down his cheek before hovering over his mouth. She pauses. Her breath hitches, nails sliding up and down the nape of his neck, and Cyrus squeezes her hip.

“You had something you wanted to tell me earlier?” Alana asks. Her throat bobs with a swallow, and another wave of heat swarms beneath Cyrus’ skin. Harsher this time, even harder to discount.

He pulls her impossibly close, his hands gripping her body like he wants to fuse them together. When his thumb brushes across her skin again, it’s feather light. And as he looks into her eyes, he hears his mother’s voice. You find something that feels like home, and you hold onto that. Never let it go. “I…I did,” he murmurs, a waver in his voice that makes him wince.

He’s broken a stallion. He’s wrangled a raging bull as it charged him head-on. Somehow, neither of those things is as daunting as this. The possibility of rejection, of past wounds reopening. He’s not sure how long it would take to recover this time, and it terrifies him. Steeling his nerves, he drags a hand up to her chin and settles there, thumb pressed just below her bottom lip. He opens his mouth to speak, his confession heavy on the tip of his tongue.

But then, Alana is pushing up on her toes. “Tell me after,” she whispers. The corner of her mouth lifts with a smirk, her hand caressing the back of his head.

Alana pulls him down to close what little distance there is left between them, and as their lips connect, that fire that’s been simmering deep in his bones ignites like gasoline on a roaring flame. The kiss starts tender, passionate, then morphs into one that’s wild and raw, with no ability to tame it—not that Cyrus would try. Alana kisses like the gods have blessed him, and he decides that she’s the single most beautiful thing he’s ever experienced.

More than he deserves, more than he can ever imagine taking for granted.

She moves against him with a confidence she hadn’t shown the first time; her fingers comb through his hair, pulling him in with a hunger he can taste on her tongue. Their mouths slot together and it takes an awful, awful lot to keep things appropriate. He tries to remember they’re not alone. Tries to show at least a glimmer of respect for the fact that her parents are probably somewhere in view. But when her head tilts, Cyrus mirrors the motion, deepening the embrace even further. He revels in the quiet gasps she lets out, swallowing the sounds.

“Ayyy! Get it, Alana, baby!!”

Beyond the haze of their affection, a voice calls out, cheering Alana on. A cousin, Cyrus assumes. Or Citlalli, perhaps. He can’t bring himself to care enough to pull away and check. But Alana smiles into him, another giggle slipping through the seams. It seems to encourage her, because the next thing Cyrus knows, her tongue is against his, begging to take things further. Fuck. The wolf in him is reeling, clawing through his blood and bones, aching for release. To shift, and toss Alana over his shoulder and escape into the woods. Away from prying eyes, away from Connor. Just the two of them, tied together until the sun breaks dawn. Gods, he’s never wanted anything more. His soul craves it.

Despite every impulse that screams at him, Cyrus’ barely functioning rationality wins. He squeezes Alana’s waist and forces himself apart, though not before making a show of nipping her bottom lip in the process. It was meant to tease her —his canine drags over her skin as he steps back. However, he miscalculated his eagerness, as well as how delicate every inch of Alana really is. A pebble of red wells up from the invisible cut. When it trickles down her lip, Cyrus leans in on instinct to lick across the damage he had done. To soothe her, to mend her.

Time stills.

Notes of copper invade his senses, and with it, his stomach hollows. Intense ringing bangs violently against his ears. When Alana calls his name—at least, he thinks that’s her voice—it’s miles away. He can hear the faint sense of worry and confusion lacing her tone, but she may as well be speaking to him from halfway around the world. Cyrus licks his lips, his heart thundering like a caged bird. Alana’s blood coats his tongue like mulled wine, where it feeds those roaring flames even more violently than before. The animal within wants more. More of her mouth on him, more of her blood, more of her scent. Gods, her scent. It’s been driving him crazy since they first fucked. Sweet, earthy, and robust, like notes of summer flowers and yeast from her fresh-baked bread.

Eyes dilated, Cyrus buries himself in the crook of Alana’s neck. He inhales her from the source, and it invades his every sense, weaving through his throat and taking up space in every crevice it can: his heart, his lungs, his mind. An image of Alana manifests, one of him tied to her, their bodies one. She’s bruised, sweating, and bloody from their lovemaking. He licks across her wounds, and wonders if he can taste himself through her this time, fully bonded.

“Cyrus? Shit, you’re burning up. Are—are you alright?”

Alana’s palms on either side of his face feel like ice. Cyrus jolts to the present. To Alana, who regards him with such concern. “I…” Cyrus swallows, chest heaving. His hand grips the glinting metal of his watch. He can feel the magic coursing through it, how it hums like electricity against the tips of his fingers, and just how much the glamour struggles to keep itself contained.