Page 25 of Knot So Lucky
The touch is careful, experimental, a featherweight threat. If she wakes up, I’ll pay for it later.
Fuck, I want to pay.
My hand finds the edge of the thong once again, unable to resist any longer. I almost laugh—fuck, she picked the skimpiest thing in her arsenal. There’s barely enough fabric to call it underwear, and it’s so thin and soft that I know I could rip it in half with a single tug. The color is deep emerald, satin, already darkening where the silk is soaked through.
A growl bubbles up in my chest—quiet enough not to wake her, but loud enough that my own body tenses. My scent expands, filling the air with burnt cedar and raw amber, burying the lavender until only I remain.
I ease my hand between her thighs, parting them just enough to give me access. I expect resistance—her Omega biology makes her tight, always, but what I find is heat, slick, her folds already wet for me. The knowledge that she’s this ready even in sleep, even after a bath, even after a fucking day of suppressants and stress—it just kills me.
I want to wake her up, make her look at me, make her realize she can’t hide the way I make her feel.
Patience Cale.
Patience…
I stroke my fingers over her folds, light at first, just tracing the seam from top to bottom, the way I’d run a hand along the hood of a classic car, testing for hidden damage. She shivers. The sound she makes—it’s not a real moan, more like the hum of an engine turning over, but it’s there, threaded through the quiet of the room. Her thighs part by instinct, just a little, a silentinvitation. Or maybe resignation—she knows what comes next, even in sleep.
The slick coats my fingers—warm, perfect, hers.
I move back and forth, slow, teasing, refusing to go deeper. I want to see how much she can take before waking.
How much pleasure I can wring from her with nothing but patience and a little cruelty.
My cock throbs.
I rock my hips against her ass, needing the friction, needing to brand her with my shape.
I stroke again, swirling circles around her clit but never quite touching, just skimming. She whimpers. Her hand spasms in the bedsheets. She mutters something—probably a curse, or I dare envision my name, but her brain’s not awake enough to say it clearly.
God, she’s beautiful like this.
Ruined, undone, not even conscious,and still so fucking responsive it makes my chest ache.
I wonder if more would be enough…
If I fucked her every night, every damn shift, would it tame the wildness in her?
Would it keep her safe, keep other packs away, or keep her needing only me?
Or am I just buying time, postponing the inevitable heartbreak?
I don’t care, honestly...at least, I can keep convincing myself of such.
All I care about is this second, her scent, the way her body cradles my hand like it was made for nothing else.
I breathe in, sharp, greedy.
My hand keeps moving. I let my fingers roam, testing her, watching how she reacts to every change in pressure. Sometimes she tenses, sometimes she melts. Every little response is mine—nobody else’s. I memorize them like track records, like lap times, like the stats that win championships.
She moans again, this time louder. Or just the sound a body makes when it’s too overwhelmed to know better.
I want her. All of her. Forever.
But for now, I’ll settle for this—her, helpless and open, trusting me to keep her safe even as I wreck her for anyone else.
I press my mouth hard to her neck—hard enough to challenge her senses, to leave a mark she’ll complain about for days.
My teeth scrape, but I don’t bite.
