Page 142 of Mate
I snake my arms around his neck, hold him tight, and refuse to let go.
THE HEAT BREAKS ON THE FOURTH DAY.
The morning sunlight sneaks inside the room, dappling every surface. I stretch, pop my eyes open, and realize that a pyramid-sized boulder just rolled off my shoulders.
I haven’t felt this good in months, even though I’m approximately thirty hours behind on rest and badly need another shower. My stomach is a cavernous pit clamoring for nourishment. I’m sore between my legs, but the usual suspects are gone: no headache, no pulled muscles, no overall fatigue.
It’s paradigm shifting. The symptoms of my Heat rose so slowly, they became my new normal. I forgot what it’s like,notfeeling like a box of stale saltines left open in a cupboard in 1947. It’s nothing extravagant— I doubt I could spring out of bed and run a half marathon, or even a 5K, without needing immediate resuscitation. But I’m decent. After being on the brink of croaking, it’s kind of a big deal.
I lift my arm up, right into a sunbeam. Stare at my hand and, without stressing too much, think about theotherme. The crunchy sounds that rise from the bed of the forest. The cold rush of the first dive into a stream. The inescapable tug of the moon.
Yes, my body says. New cells knit together as old ones break apart. My nails grow three times their size. My ulna and radius reshape, and the flesh around them merrily follows suit.At last.
I exhale giddy, delighted laughter, turning my midshift limb back and forth, savoring the beauty of—
“I still haven’t seen your wolf form.”
Koen’s scratchy morning voice rolls into my skin. He’s still holding me, his arm heavy across my belly. I doubt he plans to let go.
“Don’t even know the color of your pelt,” he adds, musing.
I force my arm back into human form and turn on my flank, facing him. He is— perfect. Mine, mine,mine.
Not mine at all.
My exultance at once again being able to shift turns into dread. “Koen.” My throat seizes up. “It’s over.”
He doesn’t tell me that he knows. Doesn’t agree that it sucks. He just stares at me with a small, content smile at the edges of his eyes. Like I’ve given him everything he could ever want, and he’s not planning to ask for more. Like he’s too happy about what we had to be sad about what we’ll soon lose.
Since I cannot bear it, I do what I know best: I lie. To myself. To him. Without even speaking.
He makes it easy for me. Goes along with it as I roll us around. Helps me keep my balance as I kneel atop his hips.
I ignore the strain in my inner thighs and stroke myself against his fully hard cock. My palms trace his chest. Shoulders. The V of his torso. Rib cage. I want to touch him everywhere, and I do. Until his hips buck upward of their own volition.
“Serena,” he murmurs.
It’s an apology, I think. His hands find my ass, my waist, my hip bones, but they don’t grip or cage. Instead he takes deep, calming breaths and peers up at me, waiting for guidance. It’s up to me. I’m painting a picture, and he doesn’t want to mess with my vision.
Whether it’s the position or the end of my Heat, taking him inside me is difficult again. Koen does nothing to help and stares, swallowing encouraging noises, fascinated by the way I have to stop and restart in increments. He’s too thick. Then there’s a sudden, wet give within me, and he’s not. His nostrils flare, and his fingers twitch in the sheets. It’s not until I have him right at the hilt, our hips flush, that I get rewarded with a pass of his thumb on my clit.
The stretch fills me to the edge and beyond, but this time neither of us cares about comfort. The urgency is still there, simmering between us, in a different form. The goal is no longer having an orgasm. We want to . . . I’m not sure. Make a memory, perhaps. So we go slowly. We make it last, hips angling, slow rise and slow fall, empty, then full. Our eyes keep wandering down, to the place where he’s stuffed inside me.
Sweaty, tacky skin.
Desperate grasping.
Pleading, drugging kisses.
In a way, it’s our first time. Inallways, it’s the last.
“Koen,” I exhale. I want to explain to him that he’s rebuilding me from the inside out, molding me into a more solid, resilient shape. But I can’t. Not when he looks up with a stupefied expression, like the existence of me, of what we’re doing, is something he hadn’t taken into consideration. Like I make the world a different place.
“Koen,” I repeat, coming, clutching wetly around his length.
Still twitching with pleasure, I lean over. We kiss, long, leisurely, incriminating. Messy and deep.
“Koen,” I say again.
