Page 42 of Lone Wolf

I’ve never been loud during sex—another habit drilled into me by Grandmother, who considered any loss of control a weakness—but I can’t hold back the sounds that tear from my throat as Sunny drives me higher. She’s relentless, reading my body’s responses and adjusting accordingly, pushing me toward a precipice I’ve never truly fallen from before.

“Let go,” she murmurs against me, her words vibrating through my core. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time in my life, I believe those words. I let go, surrendering completely as pleasure crashes over me in waves. I cry out, back arching off the bed, thighs trembling around her head. She stays with me through it all, gentling her touch but not stopping completely, drawing out my orgasm until I’m shaking, oversensitive, desperate.

“Sunny,” I gasp, tugging at her shoulders. “Come here.”

She crawls up my body, her expression triumphant and hungry. Her lips are slick with my own pleasure, eyes dark with desire. I pull her down into a kiss, tasting myself on her tongue, and something primal surges through me. I flip our positions,pinning her beneath me, savoring her look of surprise and delight.

“My turn,” I growl against her mouth.

I’m done being gentle. Done being careful. I want to consume her, to mark her, to make her feel what she’s just done to me. I strip her with efficient movements, revealing smooth brown skin that I immediately taste with my tongue, my teeth. She arches beneath me, responsive and unafraid, meeting my intensity with her own.

“Fuck,” she gasps as I bite down on the sensitive skin where her neck meets her shoulder. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark.Mymark. “Ariadne?—”

I silence her with another kiss, fierce and possessive. My hand slides between her legs, finding her wet and ready. She moans into my mouth as I touch her, exploring the slick heat of her. I memorize her reactions—what makes her gasp, what makes her writhe. But it’s not enough. I want more. I want to taste her, just like she tasted me.

I slide down her body, trailing open-mouthed kisses across her skin. Her breathing quickens as I move lower, settling between her thighs. For a moment, I just look at her—the slick, swollen flesh, the evidence of how much she wants this. Wants me.

“Please,” she whispers, hands fisting in the sheets.

I lower my mouth to her, my first taste making us both moan. She’s sweet and tangy, perfect. I explore her with long, deliberate strokes of my tongue, savoring every gasp, every twitch of her hips. My hands grip her thighs, spreading her wider, exposing more of her to my hungry mouth. When I focus on her clit, her hips buck wildly, a desperate sound escaping herthroat. I slide two fingers inside her, feeling her walls clench around them as I establish a steady rhythm. The angle is perfect—I can curl my fingers to hit that spot inside her while my tongue continues its merciless assault on her clit.

“Fuck, yes,” she gasps, hands flying to my head, holding me against her. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

I have no intention of stopping. I’m addicted to her taste, to the sounds she makes, to the way her body responds to my touch. I increase the pace of my fingers, let my tongue lash relentlessly across her clit. Her thighs begin to tremble on either side of my head, her breathing becoming more ragged. The sound of it sends a fresh wave of desire through me. I don’t stop, don’t slow down, continuing the relentless rhythm until she breaks, a cry tearing from her lips as her orgasm overtakes her. Her back arches off the bed, grinding against my face, and I drink her down.

Afterward, we lie facing each other, her leg thrown over mine, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but instead I feel…calm. Present in a way I rarely am.

“Was this a tactical error, too?” she asks, a slight smile on her lips.

I blink, surprised by the echo of my earlier thought. “How did you?—”

“You have a very specific look on your face when you think you’ve miscalculated,” she says. “I noticed it the first time we sparred.”

“You’re more observant than I gave you credit for.”

“And you’re more human than you want to admit.” She traces a finger along my collarbone, down to a scar just above my breast. “How did you get this one?”

I tense slightly. My scars are my history written on my skin, a record of lessons learned, punishments survived, missions completed. They’re not something I share.

But something in Sunny’s expression—open, curious, without judgment—makes me answer.

“Training accident,” I say. “Grandmother liked to use real knives.”

Sunny’s fingers pause, then continue their gentle exploration. “And this one?” she asks, touching a small, round scar on my shoulder.

“Cigarette burn. I failed a language test.”

Her expression darkens. “She burned you over a test?”

“Punishment had to be memorable to be effective,” I say, repeating one of Grandmother’s favorite phrases. “Pain is clarity.”

“That’s fucked up,” Sunny says bluntly. “You know that, right?”

I shrug. “It was effective. I speak six languages fluently now.”

Sunny props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me with an intensity that makes me want to look away. “Tell me something about your life before Grandmother. When you lived with Mrs. G.”

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