Page 60 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

An impasse. She questioned if either was even on the table

for someone like her. Because maybe she was put on this planet to give genuine love and connection, and never receive it. But that’s never been true. She had love in her friends. In Citlalli, Lilith and Nakita, and Connor.

She has it in her parents. And now, she has it in Cyrus.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

ALANA

Sex is an art.

Good sex? A craftsmanship.

It’s the intimacy of a lover’s weight against you, hands intertwined as they idolize every inch of your body. Or the fullness as they sink to the base, and your mind reduces to radio static. The world slows, and you lose yourself in the pleasure, the pain. Ragged breaths, and whimpers and praise.

But what’s even better are the moments after: the quiet mornings, arms and legs draped over one another as the sunrise spills through open blinds. It’s drinking in the rough rasp of each other’s voices that are thick with sleep, and lazy smiles that turn into even lazier kisses. Kisses that feather across the consequences blooming on your skin from the night prior, each one more delicate than the last.

That’s how Alana feels about it, anyway.

“We really need to get up,” she murmurs from beneath Cyrus. He lies sprawled over her like a weighted blanket, conscious enough not to crush her, but equally conscious enough to leave her trapped at his will. His head is tucked into her chest while she caresses her fingers through his hair, and she smiles at the streaks of grey woven between the strands of chocolate brown. Manicured nails scratch along the places she’s come to recognize as his favorites, and her smile curves when he groans. Cyrus shifts his weight, but not enough to grant Alana a means of escape. He buries his face further into her, kissing a patch of vitiligo above her heart.

It’s been three days since their encounter under the full moon, and each morning has started the exact same way. Cyrus, kissing her awake, hands gently tickling her sides as he drinks in her laughter. Cyrus, pulling her in close, curling around her body, and refusing to let her leave. The message is clear: cuddling ends when he decides.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbles. The bristled points of his facial hair tickle her skin when he speaks, and his voice holds the coarse, ragged drag of exhaustion.

“You said that twenty minutes ago. Besides, I have to pee,” Alana whines before wiggling under him. Being the living equivalent of a brick house, he doesn’t so much as budge. She can feel him smile into her, a low chuckle forming at her failure. He places another kiss on her chest. Then, he nips her with his canines.

“That doesn’t sound like my problem.”

“Boy, it’s going to be if you don’t stop playing around and let me up. I’m not ready to explore whatever that kink is yet.”

Cyrus tilts his head up, grinning with a lazy, half-lidded droop in his eyes. “Well, I mean, we could—”

A pained, panicked noise cuts through his laugh when Alana tugs his ear. Finally, he relents, shifting off of her. Of course, he doesn’t do so without stealing another kiss, melting the embarrassed pout off her lips.

“There,” he murmurs. “Happy?”

Alana rolls her eyes, but her lip twitches. “My bladder and dignity are, yes. Thank you.”

Freed from the confines of her prison, Alana steps off the bed and onto the chill, hardwood floors. The contrast from Cyrus’ body heat sends a chill up her spine. The mornings this close to the mountains are brisk, and she finds herself regretting her choice not to wear socks to bed. Or, well, anything for that matter. She wraps her arms around herself, scurrying her bare ass to the bathroom to relish in the glorious invention that is heated flooring and towels.

When she returns, Cyrus grabs her arm and pulls her into him. He sits on the edge of the bed, flannel blankets spread over his lap, and opens his knees to allow her room to slot between them.

“Are you sure you’re not in any pain?” There’s a softness in his eyes, and it melts Alana from the inside out. He brings her hand to his mouth and kisses the pads of her fingers, making his way down her palm. “I can run you another warm bath, if you need.”

Alana’s heart swells, crowding the space behind her ribs. Recovering from a rut with a werewolf has been… an experience. Her bones ached in ways that made her speculate if they were bruised, since she couldn’t so much as stand without falling on her face that first morning after. Alana will never forget the sight of herself, either: the deep, angry claw marks on her hip and the bruises on her knees that were starting to yellow in some places. And the most noticeable of all: the bite mark displayed across the junction where her neck joined her shoulder. Her skin was raised and swollen where the bite had been the deepest, still red with drying blood. It should have filled Alana with panic to see herself so torn up. But the only thing she felt was a sense of self-gratification and pride over the fact that she did that.

She fucked a werewolf and lived to tell the tale.

Again.

Unsurprisingly, it was Cyrus who seemed more worried for her. Which is why she didn’t argue when he spent the entire morning doting over her in every way he knew how—feeding her and trying to soothe the residual ache of their lovemaking. Although, perhaps that’s too…soft a term for what they did that night.

“I’m fine, Cyrus,” Alana moves to smooth his hair away from his forehead, kissing a spot above his brow. “I promise. But if you want to join me for a shower, I won’t argue with you.” She flashes him a smile, giggling when his expression lights up like a kid on Christmas morning.

He’s on her in a second, springing from bed as if his life depended on it. Like he hasn’t showered with her every day for the last 72 hours. His arms curl around her, calloused hands navigating the valleys and curves of her body. Alana squeals as he holds her firmly by her waist and spins her a few times before setting her down.

“You’re really sure you’re okay with all this?” Cyrus asks, brushing a thumb across the scar forming on her neck. It would fade over time, but there’ll be no mistaking it for what it is: a claim. A permanent reminder of where she stands with him.