Page 92 of Pack Frenzy
“Competition?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, feigning seriousness. “Can’t have to share pillow space with a shark and a penguin. Bad for morale.”
My laugh comes out quieter than I expect. “You jealous?”
“Should I be?”
The kitchen narrows to just the space between us. The scent of him reaches me—salt and rain and that darker, warmer smell that’s uniquely Cassian, like amber mixed with leather. My pulse stutters, then races, reckless and wanting in a way that terrifies me.
“Depends,” I say, trying to sound casual even as my voice goes breathless. “Churro and my shark don’t tease me nearly as much.”
“Then they need to step up their game. I wouldn’t waste a chance to be with you and see how much teasing you can take.”
The words land hard and fast. He’s watching me now with those dark green eyes, tracing every place the lamplight touches—my damp hair, my throat, the curve of my mouth.
His hand slides along the table with deliberate slowness, fingers brushing mine. The contact sends electricity skittering up my arm. He’s testing, asking permission without words.
I push back from the table, heart tripping, and stand before I can overthink it.
“Coffee?” I ask the cupboard more than him. I set the mug down before I drop it. He’s already behind me, breath warm against my neck, and the part of me that planned coffee evaporates.
His mouth trails lower, and I’m half-gone when he suddenly stills, breath ragged against my skin.
“Jess.” His voice is gravel. “Before this goes further—are you sure?”
My throat tightens with all the vulnerability I’ve been swallowing. The words come out jagged, defensive in that way I hate about myself. “I’m not a virgin.”
He blinks, then laughs softly, not mocking—gentle. “That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.” I swallow hard. “I just didn’t want you to think this doesn’t matter. It does.”
Cassian’s thumb grazes my jaw, tilting my face toward his with achingly gentle pressure. The warmth of his hand steadies everything trembling inside me—all my sharp edges and soft fears.
“I’d want you if you’d slept with fifty men,” he says, and there’s no judgment in it. Only certainty. Only truth.
My throat tightens—not with shame this time, but with something dangerously close to hope. His lips find my jaw, then the corner of my mouth, patient.
“A hundred?” I whisper, testing him, testing this.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and the smile that curves his mouth is warm, real. “Now let’s not get carried away.” Then, softer: “But yeah, Jess. Even then.”
The laugh that escapes me turns into a gasp when he kisses me. His mouth is warm, patient, coaxing instead of demanding. I taste rain and the ghost of his grin, and beneath that, the dark promise of everything I’ve been craving.
The kiss deepens, slower than I expected, a question he asks with his tongue and the slide of his palm at the small of my back. He’s learning me, mapping me, giving me space to pull away.
I don’t want to pull away.
The counter bites into my hips. I don’t care. Want climbs everywhere inside of me…from his breath at my cheek, the storm snarling outside, my heartbeat chasing his.
My fingers curl into his shirt, fisting the fabric, wanting it off him, wanting him closer.
He breaks away only long enough to say, “If you want me to stop?—”
“Don’t.” The word trembles out, but it’s the truest thing I’ve said in “a long time. “Please don’t stop.”
Cassian’s next breath shudders through his whole body. Then he kisses me again, harder this time, hands sliding under my shirt to map the curve of my spine.
His palms are rough, calloused, impossibly warm against my skin. His mouth trails down my throat, finding the place where pulse meets skin. When he licks there, slow and deliberate, I forget how to breathe. A sound escapes me—needy—and I feel him smile against my neck.
