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“You’re right,” I eventually say. “I was worried about attending my coming of age ceremony, scared of finding multiple packs that wouldn’t have my best interests at heart.”
“Not all alphas are good,” he agrees, moving the brush over my ribs. “Your concerns are valid.” He pauses, looking at me with a serious expression. “But remember, Devlin and Max are good alphas.”
I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, so I focus on painting, aiming for one of the suction cups near his hip, but my hand slips, accidentally brushing the tip of his penis.
I jerk my hand back, horrified. Even though I yearn to touch him, the heaviness of our conversation makes this neither thetime nor the place for such intimacy. Well, maybe it’s the place, considering we’re both sitting partially naked on a tarp, painting each other.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur, accidentally dropping the jar of purple paint onto my thigh in my rush to cover my mouth.
Ashton’s low, reverberating moan at the inadvertent touch nearly undoes me. My mouth parts instinctively, and I reach out, tracing the tip of his cock through his boxers.
He reaches out, gripping my hand, his eyes wild. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice laced with concern and desire.
My heart swells at his question. Leaning forward, I grab the back of his neck, pulling him into a desperate kiss. He tastes like sweet nutmeg and vanilla.
My tongue delves into his mouth, exploring him. He groans, the vibration sending shockwaves through me. I never want this kiss to end.
Pulling back, he looks down at me, gripping my hips, his arousal evident. I watch, entranced, as a bead of his precum wets the fabric of his boxers, a silent invitation.
With that devil-may-care smirk, his hands move from my hips to the spilled paint, smearing it along my thigh. His fingers trace circles in the paint before he pulls back to grab the green paint, pouring it over my heated skin, cooling it. My breath hitches as his fingers glide up to my nipple, sending shivers of pleasure through me. Every nerve feels alive under his touch.
His hands continue their journey up my body, cupping my face, his intense gaze searching for permission, for reassurance. I nod, pressing myself closer, our lips meeting again in a passionate embrace. Our tongues dance together, bodies pressing closer in an insatiable need for more.
Ashton’s hands explore every inch of me, eventually resting at the small of my back. He pulls me even closer, as if trying to merge us into one. Shifting to my knees, I rise above himand push him down on the canvas, taking control of our never-ending kiss.
Ashton’s touch is both gentle and insistent, a silent dialogue spoken through the language of our bodies. The world around us fades, leaving only the sensation of his fingers tracing the contours of my back, mapping a journey of intimacy and discovery.
His gaze holds mine, communicating a depth of emotion that words could never capture. In his eyes, I see the reflection of my own desires, fears, and the burgeoning hope that intertwines our souls.
The coolness of the paint contrasts with the heat of our skin, an interplay of sensations that heightens every touch, every breath shared between us. His fingers glide over my skin, leaving trails of color that mark me as his, even if only for this stolen moment.
My hands explore the expanse of his shoulders, feeling the strength that lies beneath his skin. The gentle rise and fall of his chest syncs with mine, our hearts beating a harmonious rhythm in this intimate dance.
In a surge of boldness, I trace my fingers down his chest and over the contours of his muscles, feeling him shiver under my touch. His reaction emboldens me, and I lean in, pressing my painted body against his, the colors blending and creating a vibrant tapestry that mirrors the chaos and beauty of our emotions.
Our kiss deepens, a fervent promise of things unspoken, a testament to the connection that defies the complexities of our world. It’s a moment of pure, unbridled passion, a declaration of a bond that transcends the physical.
My scent surges through the room, and a sharp cramp ripples through my body, causing me to pull back, a whimper of pain escaping my lips.
“What is it?” Ashton’s concern is palpable as he cups my face, his light eyes darkened by dilated pupils, his nutmeg scent enveloping me in comfort.
“My heat,” I gasp, clutching his shoulders, my nails instinctively digging into his flesh. An overwhelming urge takes over me—I need to leave my mark on him. My nails drag down his chest, cutting through the paint and leaving a trail of red that sends a thrill through me. The desire to repeat the action is irresistible.
“Seraphina.” He groans my name, a plea, as he grasps my wrists, pulling back slightly. His chest heaves, brushing against my sensitive skin with each breath.
“My heat,” I repeat, the cramp slowly subsiding, but my arousal only intensifies.
“Is this it?” he whispers, his lips parting, his tongue flicking out.
“No.” I shake my head, my hair cascading over my shoulders, gliding through the paint. “I need…” I moan, rolling my hips against his erection, trying to communicate my desire through movement. “You.” I elongate the word, my body winding tighter and tighter.
He starts to suggest an alternative, but I cut him off, leaning in to nip his lip. “You, Ashton. I want you. Right now. No one else.”
“We can’t… Not yet,” he says, his voice laced with tortured restraint. He lets go of my wrists, reaching for another jar of paint. This time, it’s green. He pours it down my chest, his fingers trailing down to pinch my nipples.
“Yes,” I encourage, rolling my hips against him, then batting the paint aside. My hips gyrate frantically against his erection.
“Take what you need, Seraphina,” he murmurs, his hands sliding down my back, still wet with paint.
