Page 61 of Knot So Fast
“They put me on suppression,” I say. “Pills. Doses every day. It’s supposed to make things easier, you know? Less heat, less drama, less—” I gesture vaguely at my ruined body, the mess between my legs, the evidence of every wild thing I just did. “Less everything.”
He’s silent, processing. I brace for judgment, for disgust, for the kind of pity that makes my skin crawl.
Instead, I hear a sound I don’t recognize—almost like a growl, but lower.
Hurt, not anger.
“I fucking hate that,” he says. “I hate that they’d rather see you faded out than burning bright.”
I finally look at him, and the fury in his eyes isn’t for me—it’s for them. For the parents who’d cage their own daughter to keep her safe. For the doctors who think chemistry is a curse. For the world that can’t handle anything it doesn’t control.
He drags his thumb over my jaw, gentler than he’s ever touched me, and the difference is enough to make my eyes sting.
“It’s not like I don’t…” I flush, unable to say it. I want him to smell me, I want him to want me, I want to see him lose it because of me and only me. I’m afraid to admit it, even to myself.
But he gets it. He always did.
He silences me with a kiss, this one the opposite of everything that came before—soft, slow, so careful it feels like an apology.
“Stop,” he whispers against my mouth. “Don’t ever be sorry for what they did to you.”
“I’m not,” I say, and mean it. “But I’m done letting them have a say.”
He smiles, and it’s brighter than any chandelier. “Good. Because I’m so fucking tired of pretending this raw connection between us doesn’t exist when it’s a fucking firestorm waiting to happen.”
He pulls back, just enough to catch my gaze, and then—deliberately, one slow movement at a time—he peels off his shirt. The muscles in his torso move like clockwork under his skin, every ridge and hollow mapped out in sharp relief by the kitchen lights. I’m powerless not to stare, not to devour the sight of him with my eyes, not to remember every place that used to belong to me.
He sees me looking, and grins like a wolf.
“You gonna keep drooling, or you gonna do something about it?”
I arch an eyebrow, challenge clear.
“Only if you think you can handle me.”
He unzips his pants, the sound so loud in the quiet room it makes my heart stutter. When he slides them down, his cock springs free, thick and already leaking at the tip. The sight sends a new rush of heat through me, my entire body tensing in anticipation.
He palms himself, just once, and looks down at me.
“You sure you want this?”
I laugh, because the question is ridiculous and also perfect.
“I literally begged you to fuck me on your kitchen island, Wolf. If you can’t handle it, just say so.”
He steps closer, crowding between my legs, and the sudden shift from gentle to dominant makes me squirm with need.
“Last chance, Auren,” he says. “If it gets to be too much, say the word.”
I meet his eyes, all traces of bravado stripped away.
“I want you,” I say, as plain and honest as I ever have. “All of you.”
He kisses me again, harder this time, hands finding my hips and yanking me to the edge of the counter. The jersey is up around my ribs, my whole body on display for him, and I don’t feel shy—I feel powerful.
Desired. Alive.
I reach down and spread my folds, showing him just how wet I am.
