Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            I might, too. Very soon. Especially as he moves with experimental, shallow thrusts that hit everywhere inside me. I feel myself tighten in little flutters around him, and he stops. Then he bends over to whisper against my ear: “If you’re about to come, tell me. Because that will make me come, and I need to pull out or I might hurt you. Okay?” He sounds calm, even when his control is about to snap.

            I nod, trying to stave off the surge of pleasure.

            “Okay.” He presses another gentle, chaste kiss against my nape, and then draws out. The friction is delicious, and I arch back, making plaintive sounds as only the tip is left inside. When he pushes in again, a little deeper, I whimper. “Too much?”

            The only answer I can manage is a squeeze around his cock. His palm slaps against the wall with a curse.

            “I’ve been thinking about this,” I tell him, barely a whisper.

            His “Yeah” is apologetic. “I tried not to.”

            I turn my head. He’s hulking, wrapped around me. His cheek is there, stubbly and flushed olive and perfect for me to kiss. “Me, too.” Then I add, smiling, “Not too hard, though.”

            I lose track of time when he starts thrusting, and so does he. We move together, sweaty and winded. He stops after a few minutes, to take off the edge, and then again a couple of minutes after that. He pulls out when he needs a break from the stimulation, and I feel empty, shaking with frustrated pleasure, so he slides his fingers inside me, keeping me full as he winds down, hot and hard against my hip. The lights from the street pour in through the windows, and our breathing grows choppy. When I can’t stop myself, when I’m sensitive and swollen and about to shatter so hard that a single thrust is okay to bring me off, I can barely remember to warn him.

            “I’m about to—”

            I come again, the pleasure curling tight inside me. What happens to Lowe is fuzzy, eclipsed by my own pleasure, but I make out some of it: a sharp grunt; a sudden feeling of emptiness; that part of him swelling hotter and harder against the globes of my ass; then his come, warm and wet, pooling onto the small of my back.

            And then we stay like that, breathing together, wiped of thought. He presses his forehead against my shoulder, one hand splayed on my abdomen as if to contain me, and maybe it’s whatever chemicals flood Vampyre brains after sex, but I cannot accept that this is not destined. That we are not meant to be.

            “Do Weres . . .” My voice is raspy from swallowing my moans. I clear my throat and hear myself ask, “Do Weres always knot?”

            He lets out a shuddering breath. “Don’t move.” He presses a kiss against my cheekbone. “I’m going to clean you up. Where do you keep—”

            “Don’t leave.” I turn around to look at him, and he looks—ravaged. Vulnerable. Happy. My shirt slips down, but this is my apartment. I have nothing but changes of clothes. “Can you answer my question first?”

            He shakes his head. “We don’t.” But then adds: “It’s complicated.”

            I don’t think it’s complicated. In fact, I suspect it might be very simple. “Explain it to me, please.”

            “It’s a sign of . . . It only happens between certain people.” My shirt is completely askew, and he trails kisses on the jutting bone of my shoulder, getting lost in the act before straightening my neckline. He inhales deeply. “On second thought, I’m not going to clean you up. I’ll just leave you like this.” His hand snakes around my waist. To my lower back, where I’m sticky and wet. “Send a clear message to anyone who smells you. Who you belong to.”

            “Had it ever happened to you before?”

            He’s smearing his come into my skin with his thumb, and why am I okay with this? “Before?”

            “Before me. Knotting. Did it ever happen with anyone else?”

            His eyes darken. “Misery—”

            “I’m just starting to put things together, you know?” We’re still buzzing from the pleasure, and it’s unfair of me to press him right now, when our defenses are lowered and we’re full of the wrong kind of hormones, but . . . Just but. “I think it was there for me to see all along. But you threw me off on purpose, didn’t you? There was your reaction to my scent when we first met, and it was so extreme, I assumed that you didn’t like it. How adamant you were about not having me around.” I swallow. “I would have realized it sooner, if I hadn’t taken for granted that it had to be another Were. It made so much sense that Gabi would be the one. In the end, though, it was all about getting to know you. Because now that I understand what kind of person you are, I cannot help but wonder: If Lowe were in love with someone else, would he be like this with me? And I can’t picture a reality, or even a damn simulation, in which that would be the case.” I let out a short laugh.