Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            His first pass is delicate over my bent neck. “So you’re one of them,” I say, instantly relaxed under his touch.

            “Of who?”

            “People who use washcloths.”

            I hear his smile in his voice. “If you have a sponge . . .”

            “I don’t use anything,” I offer.

            Because it’s very much an offer. A request, even. But he says nothing and continues with my arms, starting from the ball of my shoulder. His hands are firm but lightly trembling. He might be more tense about this than I am. “It seemed too forward,” he admits at last. His cheekbones are dusted with an olive tone, his voice husky. He patiently works his way to my ankle, then slowly up my leg.

            I decide to be forward. I take his hand into mine and stroke each knuckle with my thumb, one by one, and once his guard is relaxed, I steal the cloth from him and let it float away. I know he wants to touch me. I know he won’t ask. I know he needs me to do this—put his hand back on my knee, this time without barriers.

            His breath hitches, then comes faster. His jaw shifts, like he’s biting the inside of his mouth. The skin of my thigh glistens under his eyes, and his fingers tighten around my flesh, on the verge of something wonderful, something we both want.

            But Lowe talks himself out of it. He squeezes his eyes and stands to take care of my back.

            I swallow a whimper. “Coward,” I whisper good-naturedly.

            In retaliation, he leans in to kiss my nape like he did on the plane—sucking and licking and some gentle biting. A subtle reminder that he’s different from me, a whole other species. If we do this, we’ll have to work things out.

            “Do you . . . How do Weres have sex?”

            He laughs softly against my skin, but I sense an edge. “Are you worried?”

            I tip my head back. “Should I be?”

            He massages my sternum. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not ever.”

            “I know. I’m not sure why I asked.” I close my eyes, and he takes the invitation as what it is.

            I lose myself in his touch, wondering how something that requires so little can feel so good. He lingers on my breasts, around my hips, but also everywhere else. All the curves and angles, all the soft, vulnerable places. My skin tingles, simmering with an unknown sort of pleasure. Lowe is painstaking: he finds spots he wants to explore, slows down, and his breath grows heavy in my ears, broken by soft hums of approval. He takes his time, delays moving on until he’s satisfied that his task has been completed. There is something patently sexual about this, no question, but it goes beyond. I’m being discovered. Mapped. Soothed and ignited at once.

            “You are so beautiful,” he whispers, an absentminded thought more than a declaration, and suddenly I can’t stand it anymore. Eyes closed, my hand searches for his under the water. I braid our fingers together and guide them to my inner thigh. It’s a silent plea.

            “I’m just so tired.” I sigh. “And I really want it.”

            “God, Misery.” His heartbeat smells like he’d die for this. And yet he’s about to ask me if I’m really sure, and I’m going to laugh at him. Or snarl.

            “Lowe. Will you help? Please?”

            His “Fuck” is soft and awestruck, but his fingers shift to where I need them. Barely a brush of knuckles against my labia, but I hiss right as he inhales. Our breaths catch together, balancing in the room. “Okay.” A rumble from deep in his chest. “Okay.”

            The pad of his thumb finds my clit in warm, rhythmic circles. Lowe licks his lips and half asks, half growls, “Like this?”

            I nod. It’s not what I’d do for myself, but it works, somehow even better. There is some clumsiness on both our ends, but he figures out where to touch me. How long. How hard. “Yes.” I bite into my lower lip, fangs exposed, and press into him.

            “The night we met, when you came down the mezzanine stairs,” he groans against my shoulder, “I thought about doing this.”

            There must be something dramatically, massively compatible between us, because I feel every stroke of his fingers deep inside this soul that I’m not supposed to have. “Yeah?” The hot, mounting sensation in my lower belly knots into a tangle of heat. I squirm, arch my back. Cool air sweeps over my wet nipples.