Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            “And I need to eat you out.”

            He needs to. “Okay?”

            “It’s a Were thing,” he says, almost apologetic.

            I nod, and when he bends to nip at my hipbone, I close my eyes and welcome it: the stretch of my thighs as they are spread out, the hitch of his breath as he looks and looks and looks some more, his raspy groan, and then the contact with his mouth.

            There is something beseeching about the way he licks and sucks, something not quite in control, and when the pleasure begins fizzing in my stomach again, I writhe against his lips and give him what he wants. I comb my fingers in his short hair, but he takes my hands, both wrists locked in his large fingers, and pins them to my side. “Be still,” he orders, and the sight of me restrained must do something for him, because his other arm disappears down his body, the rhythmic flex of his corded shoulder a mesmerizing sight. He’s touching himself because what he’s doing to me makes him want to, and the idea is like fire in my belly.

            “I can’t,” I hiss out, arching into him even more.

            “Hush.” My brain cannot unravel how much he seems to be enjoying this, the sounds he produces, the consuming way he kisses my clit and my opening, the sweet scrape of his stubble against the crease of my thighs. I’m mindless, completely unraveled. And I’m dragging him with me.

            “You are fucking unreal,” he says, and when a knuckle slides inside me, I feel myself clench around it. I don’t think Lowe is inexperienced, but there is an edge to his movements, something more enthusiastic than skilled, something just perfect. He gently bites my swollen lips, making me jolt, and then chases the sting with his tongue. When the heat rises in my chest, when the pressure coils and I thrash around, he anchors me with an arm over my hipbone. That’s what has my legs quivering and my nipples aching and me coming hard: Lowe’s presence surrounding me, taking up every molecule of air.

            Once I’m a shaking mess, he groans against my pussy and lets out a low “I’m going to—” His grip on my thighs becomes nearly painful. His hips jerk, and my heels dig into his shoulder as the pleasure crests violently inside me once again.

            I probably black out a little. Because when everything recedes, I find Lowe crowding my body, still hard against my hip. His jeans are warm and sticky. His heartbeat pounds on the back of my tongue as he guides my head to his neck. “I think,” he says, winded, hoarse, “I’m going to lock you in this closet forever.”

            I nuzzle closer. “I think I’d love that.” My fangs graze against his vein until he growls. I reach for the button of his jeans, fumble with it, and I almost have it open when his phone rings.

            I whimper, disappointed. Lowe clutches my hip once, forcefully, then again before letting go. He vibrates with frustrated tension as he disentangles us. He sighs heavily after checking the caller ID, and hands the phone to me with shaky hands.

            I reach for my discarded towel to cover myself and try not to pay attention to the way Lowe is breathing deeply, trying to calm himself down.

            Owen’s formal “Congratulations on evading your first assassination attempt” is so factually incorrect, I almost hang up on him.

            “My first? Excuse me?”

            He rolls his eyes. “I meant in this round of Collateral duties. My apologies. Allow me to restate: I fucking told you this would happen, and you need to come back home immediately.”

            “Home.” I drum my fingers against my chin. “You mean, to the people who sent me twice into enemy territory?”

            “They technically sent you into ally territory, and you almost got killed, so get your ass back here.”

            I open my mouth to ask him if Father has died and made him councilman, then close it when Lowe enters the screen. “Her safety is my priority,” he tells Owen in a stately manner.

            My brother studies my bare shoulders, the wet-T-shirt-contest condition Lowe’s chest appears to be in, the flush on both our cheeks, and says, “You two really are fucking, huh.”

            It’s not a question. I turn to look at Lowe, who turns to look at me. And we both get a little lost in the exchange.

            Not yet, I think.

            I wish we were, he seems to say.