“Fuck,” he growls against my mouth—low, rough—and the vibration travels through me, making me squirm with inexplicable need. My hands slide down his sides to grip his hips. I’m grinding against him. When the hell did I get like this?
Doesn’t matter. He’s not complaining. His lips leave my mouth to trail along my jawline before moving down my throat. A day’s worth of stubble leaves a path of fire down my neck, setting my skin tingling. I drop my head back and suck in air asmy nipples stand to attention, puckering so hard they’re almost aching. I practically start panting when he raises a hand to cup my breast through the fabric of my dress.
“God! Please…” I gasp out, but any other words I might have said are swallowed by another mind-numbing kiss as his mouth covers mine again.
Willow, you idiot! What are you doing?
But right now, I couldn’t bring myself to stop, even if I wanted to.
And I don’t want to.
He pushes me backward through the restroom door. Kicks it shut behind him. His hand fumbles, finds the latch, and turns it without breaking the kiss.
My shoulders hit the wall. His body pins me there—chest to chest, hip to hip—and I can feel him, his cock hard against my stomach through his jeans. The reality of that sends a spike of arousal through me so sharp I moan into his mouth.
His hands slide down my sides, find the hem of the dress, and push it up my thighs. His fingers are rough, calloused, and the scrape of them against my bare skin makes me arch against him. He grips the back of my thigh and lifts. I hook my leg around his hip, and the change in angle presses him right against my mound. The friction, even through denim and cotton, makes me groan low in my throat.
He lifts me. Both hands under my thighs, up, and I’m sitting on the edge of the washbasin with my legs wrapped around him and his mouth on my throat, working down to my collarbone with a hunger that’s barely controlled. I lean back against the mirror. The cold glass against my shoulder blades is a shock that does nothing to cool the heat building between my legs.
His hand slides up my inner thigh. Pushes the dress higher. His fingers find the edge of my underwear and pull it aside without hesitation, and then he’s touching me—two fingers onmy clit, working in tight circles with a precision that makes my vision blur.
“Yes,” I hiss. Because that’s the only word left. “Yes… there…”
He watches my face while he works me. Reads me. Adjusts pressure, speed, angle, all without asking, and every adjustment is right. My hips roll against his hand, chasing the friction. The sounds coming out of my mouth are not sounds I make in public. The bathroom amplifies them. I don’t care.
His free hand is already at his belt. I help, my fingers shaking as I work the buckle, the button, the zipper. I get my hand inside and wrap my fingers around him, and my brain short-circuits. He’s thick and heavy and hot in my grip, big enough that my hand doesn’t close fully around him, and the combination of intimidation and want makes me tighten my legs and pull him closer.
“Now,” I say. “I need… I need… Now!”
He makes a sound that’s pure wolf, and I feel a flood of wet gush from me. Glancing down, he pulls my underwear further aside and lines himself up. The first push is slow, and I feel every inch of it; the stretch, the sting, the impossible fullness of him seated deep. My head drops back against the mirror. When he bottoms out, the sound I make is half pain, half relief, and entirely involuntary.
He stills. “You okay?”
“If you stop, I swear to God—”
He doesn’t stop.
His hips roll forward, and I wrap both arms around his neck and look down. Between us, in the fluorescent light, I can see everything. His cock sliding into me, slick and flushed. The way my body opens for him, lips spreading wide around his girth. The wet sounds we make, raw and obscene and unbearably real.
He grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls my head back to expose my throat. His mouth drags along the line of my neck, and histeeth graze the tendon—not biting, not quite, but the threat of it sends a contraction through me that makes him swear under his breath. He slams in harder.
“Oh… fuck!” I choke out as heat begins to build low in the pit of my belly. “Yes! Oh… oh fuck!” At this rate, I’m going to come faster than I ever have in my life.
The pace builds. The washbasin creaks under our weight. His thrusts are deep and measured at first, then harder, faster, driven by whatever is unravelling in both of us.
The angle is perfect; he’s hitting something inside me with every stroke that winds the pressure tighter and tighter. I’m gripping the edge of the basin with one hand and his shoulder with the other, and my legs are shaking, and my wolf is howling inside me with a sound that isn’t lust… It’s recognition, wild and triumphant, as if she’s found something she’s been searching for.
When he slides a hand between us and rubs his thumb over my clit, I come so hard my vision flares white. Not a slow build; an ambush. One second, I’m climbing, and the next I’m gone, my whole body locking around him, inner muscles clamping in waves that pull him deeper. A sound tears out of me that I’ll be embarrassed about later; raw, loud, nothing I can control.
He follows within seconds. His hips snap forward once, twice, and then he’s buried in me and shuddering, his forehead pressed to my shoulder, his breath ragged and hot against my skin. I feel him pulsing inside me. Feel the heat of him. The intimacy of it—his weight, his breathing, the tremors running through his arms—is more than I was prepared for.
We stay like that. Both breathing hard. His face is against my neck. My fingers are still twisted in his hair. The fluorescent light hums overhead. A faucet drips.
My wolf is silent for the first time since we walked into this bar. Not restless, not pushing. Quiet. Settled. Content in a way that terrifies me more than anything else tonight.
He lifts his head. Looks at me. His expression isn’t smooth or satisfied. It’s stripped open, confused, like he’s trying to understand something, and the answer isn’t where he expected to find it.
I know the feeling.