Page 59 of Unclench Me Softly

I’m still vibrating with Miles’s voice in my ear, I’m not safe, as I gather up the scattered remains of my post-howl altar like I can somehow sweep my libido into a sage bundle and burn it away.

The tea jars clink as I stack them. The staff wobbles when I lean it against a tree. I mutter to myself the entire time like a woman trying to recite a protection spell she never memorized.

I just need to get to my dome. To breathe. To reset.

To put space between me and five men who are turning my spiritual wellness scam into a sensual fever dream I am not qualified to lead.

I take the side path back through the trees. The night is warm, the moonlight filtered and soft, and the domes glow like little wombs of safety. I round the corner to mine, fingers already fumbling for the zipper of my robe, and then I freeze.

Because someone is sitting on my front steps, leaning back, legs spread, and arms draped over his knees like he owns the night.

Jax.

And not the smirking, half-joking version of him. No.

This Jax is quiet. Still. Eyes locked on mine like he felt me coming. “Hey, Moon Girl.”

I stop mid-step. My pulse does a handspring. “You... waiting for someone?” I ask, voice too high, too breathy.

He stands. “Yeah,” he says. “You.”

My stomach flips. My knees threaten betrayal. “Why?”

He shrugs. Steps closer. Not rushed. Just inevitable. “Because last night, we kissed. And today... I tried to shake it off. Tried to rewild and reflect and build my dumb little moss bed like a good cub.”

He’s right in front of me now. His voice drops, heavy and warm. “But it didn’t work.”

He reaches out. Fingertips trail up my arm, slow and reverent. “Because I don’t want to be a cub.” His hand slides to my waist. “I want to be a man in your bed.”

My breath leaves me.

The robe slips off one shoulder. He notices. Doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t need to.

“Jax,” I say.

“No more fake rituals,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “No more almost. You want this?”

I nod. Too fast. Too hard.

He exhales like he’s been holding it in all day.

Then he’s kissing me. Not soft. Not tentative.

Hungry. Claiming. Heat and hands and “I’ve been waiting for this and you’ve known it.”

He backs me against the dome door, one hand braced beside my head, the other sliding up under my robe, fingers finding skin like he’s mapping territory. He groans into my mouth when he touches my thigh, and it’s so real, so raw, I almost cry.

I open for him. Let him in. Mouths colliding. Teeth clashing. Tongue and need and holy shit he tastes like fire and forgiveness.

He pulls back just enough to speak. “You stop me now,” he growls, “Or I’m not stopping.”

I don’t stop him. I open the door with shaking hands and drag him inside like I’ve summoned the storm on purpose.

And then there’s no more pretending. No more fake retreats or spiritual metaphors.

Just hands. Mouths. Heat. Need.

He slams the door behind us and presses me to it like the whole dome is holding its breath. His mouth crashes into mine, no hesitation, no warm-up. Just teeth, tongue, breath, groaning heat as his fingers tangle in my hair like he’s starving for something that only exists between my thighs.

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