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“What do you want?” I asked.
“You know what I want.” He pushed my hair back over my shoulders, and a lick of cool air caressed my skin. He trailed his fingers from my jaw down my neck and over my arm, and in return I cupped his face in my palms, running my thumbnail over the growing stubble under his bottom lip. I wanted to memorize his face like it was a Braille alphabet, so I could read it with my eyes closed.
I wanted to know the precise topography of his skin that created the perfect map of features I couldn’t get enough of.
“What do you want?” I was going to keep asking until he said the words.
His fingers were under the hem of my shirt now, tiny, searing touches leaving their mark across my skin. I started to undo his buttons, revealing a hint of chest hair as I went.
“I want what he wanted.”
In response, I stuck my index finger in his mouth. He bit down, nipping at the top joint, then sucking. A quivering sigh rolled from my throat, and I rocked my hips against his. He sucked harder.
“Tell me what you want.” I scratched his chin with my thumbnail, staring at him as his eyes fluttered closed, then opened again. “Because he can’t have what he wants. But you can have anything you ask for.”
That was it.
It was as if I’d said the magic words to totally undo whatever restraint had been holding him back and keeping him decent. Wilder’s hands went to my hips, fingers groping, clasping, and then he was standing, and I had to use both my hands on his shoulders to keep from falling backwards as he lifted us off the couch.
I let out a little whoop of surprise, clinging to him.
He kicked the coffee table over, and magazines sprawled onto the floor, coasters rolling under the couch and towards the kitchen. We didn’t make it any farther. He knelt, supporting me as we went to the area rug, and then his whole glorious weight was on top of me, and his mouth met mine in a kiss so ferocious my toes actually curled.
I could barely breathe he was kissing me so hard, all tongue and teeth and biting. But who needed to breathe when this felt so good? The world went blurry and fuzzy around the edges, erasing any kind of thought or worry or sense.
This foolhardy, animal need was precisely the reason I’d gone on the pill when I started dating Cash. Because my logic centers tended to shut down when my more primal brain took over. Prevention is the best medicine, in that case.
One werewolf in a lust frenzy was bad enough. Two of us together and there was no hope of stopping. My shirt ripped with the distinctive sound of shredding cotton. Wilder’s buttons went flying, skittering across the hardwood floor and under the furniture never to be seen again.
“I want you,” he said finally. “You. I want you.”
I fumbled with his belt, my desperate fingers so stymied by the buckle I was ready to bite the damn thing off. He helped, expertly unclasping it and undoing my own zipper just as easily.
My jeans were barely over my hips and he was inside me.
I gasped, fingernails digging at his back, and the rug beneath us rasped against my exposed skin. He kissed me again, slower, cradling my head in his wide palms as he rocked his hips, finding a way to get even deeper, so deep I felt like he had become a part of me. I let out a little whimper, but when he tried to withdraw from the kiss, I grabbed his head, holding him in place, and arched my back to meet his motions.
He was big, but didn’t feel too big. The way he stretched me felt right, the kind of pain that tells you you’re alive.
When I pulled back from the kiss, I whispered, “I’m yours.”
Chapter Seventeen
The smell of fresh coffee and the rasp of a broom on hardwood dragged me out of my sleep.
Sunlight filtered through the living room window, illuminating what looked like the site of a bar brawl. The coffee table had cracked when Wilder kicked it over—apparently IKEA did not do stress testing for sexual outbursts—and was still lying on its side.
The ruined remains of my shirt and bra were scattered over the couch and dangling off one l
eg of the coffee table. We’d never gotten beyond the living room, but at some point we had shed the rest of our clothes, because our jeans were in a twisted puddle of denim by the loveseat, and Wilder’s button-down was draped over the TV.
He was breathing softly beside me, more at peace than I’d seen him since this whole ordeal started. A faint smile turned up the corner of his mouth, and the deep lines of worry were gone from between his brows.
A knit blanket was covering us.
I definitely hadn’t put it there.
The sweeping noise stopped, and I tilted my head back to look towards the kitchen.
