And yet the idea doesn’t ignite a speck of fear…
Which is why it’s so easy to smother her with a kiss.
Like I’m about to seal a deal with the devil himself.
CHAPTER 9
Bleed, Bite, Belong
~SERAPHINE~
Ihover above him, thighs trembling so hard I'm surprised he can't hear my bones rattling.
The head of his cock presses against my entrance—blunt, hot, impossibly large—and every nerve ending in my body screams contradiction. Want this, don't want this, need this, will die from this. My toe taps against the mattress—tap-tap-tap-tap—four times before I force it still.One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. The counting doesn't help. Nothing helps.
I'm about to let an Alpha I've known face-to-face for less than an hour but loved for years inside my body, and I can't tell if this is salvation or the final nail in my coffin.
His hands find my hips—warm, certain, the callused palms of someone who's survived through touch and precision just like me.
"Whenever you're ready, Sweets," he murmurs, and the gentleness in his voice makes my chest crack open.
I lower myself.
Slowly.
So fucking slowly.
The stretch is immediate and overwhelming—my body resisting, then yielding, then resisting again as I take him inch by impossible inch. My fingers flex against his chest—open, close, open, close—four times each while I try to remember how to breathe.
Two inches.
I pause, gasping.
Four inches.
A whimper escapes my lips—high, pathetic, the sound of someone being unmade.
His grip on my hips tightens, fingertips digging into flesh hard enough to bruise, to mark, to claim.
"That's it," he breathes. "Take your time."
Six inches.
I'm shaking now—full-body tremors that have nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the fact that I've never been this full, never felt this stretched, never had an Alpha who made me want to count higher just to prove I could survive him.
Eight inches.
My thighs are burning from holding myself up, from controlling the descent, from not just dropping and taking all of him at once the way instinct demands.
But control is all I have.
Control and counting and the obsessive need to do this right, to make it even, to prove I'm not completely broken.
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
I lock eyes with him.
His pupils are blown so wide the green-gold is just a thin ring around the black, and the look on his face—fuck, the look on his face is worship and hunger and something that might be love if I was stupid enough to believe in it.
