Page 251 of Slashed Bonds

“Yes,” she says, before I ask.

I slide in.

Slow. One inch. The heat of her takes the thought out of my head and replaces it with the specific, devastating fact of her walls closing around me, slick and tight and fluttering like she hasn’t finished the last one. Another inch. She breathes out a curse. I sink the rest, seven, to the base, and stay there, forehead against hers, both of us shaking with the effort of not moving.

“Fuck,” I say, which is not in the book.

“Move,” she says, which is.

I move.

Deep. Measured. The pace of a man who meant what he said about not rushing a meal. Out to the head. In to the hilt. The wet sound of it filling the room, her moan on every return, my hand still at her nape like a promise I haven’t said in words. She takes me. All of me. Heels at my back, pulling me deeper on the strokes I try to keep civilized, and civilized lasts about four of them.

Then it’s fucking.

Properly. The bed answering. Her hands on my shoulders, my ribs, the four letters she still hasn’t asked about. I angle. Find the place that makes her voice break, and I stay on it, hips driving, the restraint I walked in here with coming apart one stroke at a time.

She begs. I give. She clenches and I groan into her neck and drive harder, chasing the flutter I felt on my tongue, the one that said addiction, the one that’s saying it louder now that I’m inside it.

“Close,” she gets out. “Cap. With me. I want⁠—”

“I’ve got you.”

I get a hand between us. Thumb on her clit, firm, the same circle my tongue learned, and I fuck her through it, deeper, the pace gone ragged.

She breaks first. Cums around me with a cry that the hall definitely heard, walls gripping, pulsing, pulling me in, and the pull takes the last of my control with it. I follow. Buried. A groan against her mouth that isn’t a word, heat spilling into her in pulses I can’t pace, both of us breathless and locked and shaking through it together until the room comes back in pieces.

Cedar. Cherry. Sweat. Her laugh, wrecked, against my jaw.

I stay in her until the aftershocks finish using us. Then I pull out, slow, and sit back on my heels between her thighs, chest heaving.

The shirt’s still on. Ridiculous. I reach back, catch the collar, and pull it off in one motion. Drop it on the floor. The air hits sweat and muscle and the four letters, and her eyes go down my stomach like she’s reading a scouting report she intends to act on.

I look at the mess of her. Hoodie at her throat. Mouth swollen. Thighs shining.

“We’re so not done,” I mutter.

There’s a low chuckle to our left.

I look over.

Nikolai’s awake. Of course he is.

Flat on his back still, mouth curved, the sleep gone out of his eyes and something much worse put in its place. Killian’s face is no longer in his shoulder.

The defenseman is up on one elbow, red tips stuck to his cheek, the bite on his neck gone dark, watching us with the expression he uses when a play develops exactly the way he drew it.

The cuffs tick when Nikolai lifts his hand. Killian’s comes with it.

“There ain’t no way,” Nikolai says, voice wrecked and delighted, “we’re missing the next round.”

Killian’s eyes drop to Mori. To the hoodie at her throat.

To my hand still on her thigh.

“Bed’s big,” he says. “We should use it.”

I smirk.