brace herself. The
nail was coming, she could feel it. It was the last one and it was coming and
once it was out they could stop trying to banter past horrible, grisly
injuries. They could do something ordinary, instead. Like cuddle.
“Did I mention how much I loved you running to my rescue?”
“You might have said something—hold still.”
“I can’t, it’s really—ah, Jesus!”
“I’m sorry I’m sorry, oh fuck I’m so sorry!”
And then the banter evaporated, and she was just blubbering
into his blood-streaked back. At least she had the nail—though what kind of
victory that was she couldn’t say. Her entire body felt like a wet dishrag.
She’d soaked her uniform, under her arms. Three nails, and she was out for the
count.
“Hey hey hey—it’s okay. I’m okay. I haven’t died.”
But that wasn’t the point really, was it? When she ran her
fingertips over the almost smooth marks where the nails had been, he still
flinched. She could still feel the blood sliding thick and visceral beneath her
touch. It had run all the way down his back to wet the sheets, and when she got
the cloth and wiped and rinsed, wiped and rinsed, it turned the water a stormy
red.
“Scrub harder,” he said, so she did. She got the sooty
trails off his arms and his face—not like before with the soft, sensuous
strokes she’d fallen into over the year, but rough and hard and desperate.
And the harder she scrubbed, the less he seemed appeased,
until somehow he’d reached behind himself and crushed his hands over her ass,
plastered her to him like maybe he could get rid of the blood and the pain by
merging them into one person.
Which seemed, frankly, insane. She’d just pulled nails out
of him and he was groping her in a completely suggestive manner, and when she
kissed the nape of his neck instead of pushing her face against it, he groaned
too loudly.
“Weren’t you in agony, three seconds earlier?” she asked,
but he just laughed—a terrifying, full-throttle sound. She wasn’t even sure if
she’d ever heard him make anything like it before.
“I’m no longer completely sure I can tell the difference
between pleasure and pain,” he said, and she thought of his scar, the way he’d
reacted when she’d bitten him. The way she had reacted when she’d thought he
was going to bite her.
“I don’t think we have an entirely healthy relationship,”
she said, though it kind of hurt to do it. Still, it felt a whole lot better
when he didn’t respond with something like, Yeah, well, we’re a different
species .
“I spend half my life in a cage and you spend all of your
life pretending you don’t mind. I think we’re long past healthy,” he said, then
quite suddenly spread himself over and against her.
It made the back of his head and the nape of his neck slot
into the curve of her shoulder, and gave her a long, charged look at the entire
length of his glorious body—golden again, now the pink of the scrubbing had
left his skin. Nothing stuck, that was the thing with him. Nothing stuck, and
he was just going to be ageless and flawless forever.
Save for the scar. The one she couldn’t help tracing her
fingers over—oh that branching, beautiful part of it like a twisted letter Y,
so rough beneath her touch—on the way down his body, to the thick, insistent
jut of his cock.
“You know, I always thought I was the insatiable one,” she
said, though the way it had really felt played on her mind. It played so hard
she had to say it. “I thought I was going mad.”
His eyes were half-slits. Most of him didn’t seem to care,
but some of him apparently did.
“Because I’m a wolf?”
Oh yeah, some of him did.
“Because I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.
Because I think of it even in darkness, with bars between us.”
“Think about what?” he asked, but she could see he had a
pretty good idea. He’d turned his face to her throat now, and his mouth felt
unbearably wet and hot.
“Being
nail was coming, she could feel it. It was the last one and it was coming and
once it was out they could stop trying to banter past horrible, grisly
injuries. They could do something ordinary, instead. Like cuddle.
“Did I mention how much I loved you running to my rescue?”
“You might have said something—hold still.”
“I can’t, it’s really—ah, Jesus!”
“I’m sorry I’m sorry, oh fuck I’m so sorry!”
And then the banter evaporated, and she was just blubbering
into his blood-streaked back. At least she had the nail—though what kind of
victory that was she couldn’t say. Her entire body felt like a wet dishrag.
She’d soaked her uniform, under her arms. Three nails, and she was out for the
count.
“Hey hey hey—it’s okay. I’m okay. I haven’t died.”
But that wasn’t the point really, was it? When she ran her
fingertips over the almost smooth marks where the nails had been, he still
flinched. She could still feel the blood sliding thick and visceral beneath her
touch. It had run all the way down his back to wet the sheets, and when she got
the cloth and wiped and rinsed, wiped and rinsed, it turned the water a stormy
red.
“Scrub harder,” he said, so she did. She got the sooty
trails off his arms and his face—not like before with the soft, sensuous
strokes she’d fallen into over the year, but rough and hard and desperate.
And the harder she scrubbed, the less he seemed appeased,
until somehow he’d reached behind himself and crushed his hands over her ass,
plastered her to him like maybe he could get rid of the blood and the pain by
merging them into one person.
Which seemed, frankly, insane. She’d just pulled nails out
of him and he was groping her in a completely suggestive manner, and when she
kissed the nape of his neck instead of pushing her face against it, he groaned
too loudly.
“Weren’t you in agony, three seconds earlier?” she asked,
but he just laughed—a terrifying, full-throttle sound. She wasn’t even sure if
she’d ever heard him make anything like it before.
“I’m no longer completely sure I can tell the difference
between pleasure and pain,” he said, and she thought of his scar, the way he’d
reacted when she’d bitten him. The way she had reacted when she’d thought he
was going to bite her.
“I don’t think we have an entirely healthy relationship,”
she said, though it kind of hurt to do it. Still, it felt a whole lot better
when he didn’t respond with something like, Yeah, well, we’re a different
species .
“I spend half my life in a cage and you spend all of your
life pretending you don’t mind. I think we’re long past healthy,” he said, then
quite suddenly spread himself over and against her.
It made the back of his head and the nape of his neck slot
into the curve of her shoulder, and gave her a long, charged look at the entire
length of his glorious body—golden again, now the pink of the scrubbing had
left his skin. Nothing stuck, that was the thing with him. Nothing stuck, and
he was just going to be ageless and flawless forever.
Save for the scar. The one she couldn’t help tracing her
fingers over—oh that branching, beautiful part of it like a twisted letter Y,
so rough beneath her touch—on the way down his body, to the thick, insistent
jut of his cock.
“You know, I always thought I was the insatiable one,” she
said, though the way it had really felt played on her mind. It played so hard
she had to say it. “I thought I was going mad.”
His eyes were half-slits. Most of him didn’t seem to care,
but some of him apparently did.
“Because I’m a wolf?”
Oh yeah, some of him did.
“Because I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.
Because I think of it even in darkness, with bars between us.”
“Think about what?” he asked, but she could see he had a
pretty good idea. He’d turned his face to her throat now, and his mouth felt
unbearably wet and hot.
“Being
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