Page 51 of Fat Arranged Mate
I shift and feel the evidence of last night's activities—a sticky dampness between my thighs, muscles protesting in places I'd forgotten could be sore. Heat floods my cheeks as I realize I must have simply passed out afterward, my body surrendering to a pleasure so intense it short-circuited consciousness itself.
The space beside me is empty, sheets cool to the touch. He's been gone for some time.
In the bathroom, I avoid my reflection as I shower, not ready to face whatever might be written across my features. The hot water stings faint marks on my shoulders, my collarbone, the sensitive skin of my breasts—each a reminder of teeth and tongue and barely restrained hunger.
I've never experienced anything like last night. Never imagined I could be so completely undone, so willingly vulnerable. Never knew pleasure could border so closely on obliteration.
Clean, dressed, and marginally composed, I follow the scent of coffee to the kitchen. Dylan stands at the counter, back to me, shoulders tense beneath his gray t-shirt. He must hear myapproach—shifter senses make true surprise nearly impossible—but he doesn't turn.
"Morning," I manage, voice betraying nothing of the chaos churning beneath my ribs.
He nods without looking up. "Coffee's fresh."
I pour a cup, maintaining careful distance as I move around him. The kitchen suddenly feels impossibly small, air charged with unspoken complications.
"Power came back around four," he says, tone deliberately neutral. "Heat's working again."
"Good." I grip my mug tighter, searching for something else to say. Something normal. Professional. "Any news from Silvercreek?"
"Nothing significant." He finally turns, eyes meeting mine briefly before sliding away. "They've got expanded patrols looking for Miles, but no sign yet."
We dance this awkward choreography through breakfast—him at the counter, me at the table, careful not to occupy the same space simultaneously. The physical distance feels deliberate, manufactured, as if proximity might trigger another loss of control neither of us can afford.
"Women's meeting in town today," I say eventually, breaking a silence that's grown too heavy. "I've been invited.”
"Good opportunity for intelligence." His response is automatic, stripped of emotion. "Guardians’ wives might be more candid than their husbands."
"That's my thinking."
Another silence descends, this one fractured with unasked questions. What happens now? Was last night a mistake? Has something irreversible shifted between us?
But neither of us speaks these thoughts aloud. Instead, we retreat to safer territory—mission parameters, information objectives, reporting protocols. As if by mutual agreement, we have decided that last night never happened.
I almost believe it myself, until I catch him watching me when he thinks I'm not looking, his gaze carrying the weight of everything we're not saying.
***
The Pinecrest Community Center smells of industrial cleaner and instant coffee. Folding chairs arranged in a semicircle face a small podium where Marianne Jenkins—wife of the Guardian who supplied the silver bullets—stands with a clipboard in hand.
"Ladies, let's welcome our newest neighbor, Sera!" She gestures toward me with maternal enthusiasm that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Her husband Dylan has been getting involved with the men's group, so we're delighted to have her join us."
Fifteen women turn to assess me with varying degrees of friendliness. I recognize several from the clinic—patients, mostly, though Nurse Diane sits near the front, her thin face arranged in a polite smile.
"Thank you for having me," I say, hands clasped demurely in my lap. "We're still settling in, but everyone's been so welcoming."
"That's Pinecrest for you," says a blonde woman whose name tag reads 'Bethany.' "We take care of our own."
The meeting begins with announcements—bake sale fundraisers, volunteer schedules for the upcoming town festival, and a new mommy-and-me program at the church. Ordinary community activities that could exist in any small town across America.
Then Marianne shifts gears, her voice dropping to a more serious register. "Now for our safety updates. Sheriff Donovan has asked me to remind everyone about the new curfew recommendations. No outdoor activities after dusk, especially for children. The trails beyond Miller's Creek are completely off-limits until further notice."
Murmurs of concern ripple through the group.
"Is it true they found another one?" asks an older woman near the window. "Marge at the diner said there were tracks all around Johnson's property."
"Nothing confirmed," Marianne replies with practiced caution. "But better safe than sorry. These predators are getting bolder."
The word 'predators' carries weight beyond its literal meaning—a coded reference all these women understand. They don't openly say 'shifters,' but the implication hangs heavy in the air.
