Paul's POV
The weight of her beneath me feels like coming home.
Morgan's body sinks into the couch cushions as I press her down, my mouth never leaving hers, my hands mapping curves I've dreamed about for weeks that felt like centuries.
She's soft and warm and real beneath my palms, and the wolf pacing behind my ribs has finally gone quiet for the first time since she disappeared.
Every ounce of Valdric's attention is fixed on the woman arching up to meet me.
'Ours,' he growls, and the possessiveness reverberates through my bones. 'She's finally ours.'
I kiss her deeper, swallowing the sounds she makes, drinking them down like water after a drought. Her fingers rake across my shoulders, nails biting into muscle, and the sharp sting only makes me want more.
I want to mark her. I want her to mark me.
I want evidence of this carved into our skin where we can touch it later and remember.
Her thighs fall open beneath me, cradling my hips, and the heat of her against my length nearly shatters what remains of my control.
I roll my hips forward, grinding against her slick center, and the moan that escapes her throat makes my vision blur at the edges.
"Paul—" My name sounds sacred in her mouth. Like a word that belongs only to her.
I trace kisses down her jaw, her throat, the curve of her shoulder. The skin here is soft, unmarked, waiting. The urge rises through me like wildfire—primal, undeniable, the instinct that has driven our kind since before memory.
Mark her. Claim her. Make her yours in a way that can never be undone.
My teeth graze the junction of her neck and shoulder, and Morgan gasps beneath me, her body going taut like a bowstring. Valdric surges forward, demanding action, demanding the bite that would bind her to me permanently.
'Do it,' he commands. 'Make her ours in blood and bond.'
The temptation burns through my veins.
One bite. One moment of pressure and release, and she would carry my mark for the rest of her life. Every wolf who encountered her would know she belonged to me.
But Morgan didn't choose this moment. Morgan hasn't said yes.
I pull back from her throat with effort that costs me more than I want to admit, my breath ragged against her collarbone.
The decision to wait feels like swallowing broken glass, but I force myself to breathe through the need, to prioritize her consent over my wolf's demands.
"Paul?" Morgan's voice carries confusion, concern. Her fingers thread through my hair, tilting my face up to meet her gaze. "What's wrong?"
Everything. Nothing. I want to consume you and I'm terrified of what that means.
"I need—" The words catch in my throat.
How do I explain the war raging inside me? How do I tell her that every instinct I possess is screaming at me to sink my teeth into her flesh and bind her to me forever?
She must see something in my expression, because her features soften with understanding that surprises me. Then she's moving—shifting beneath me, rolling us until our positions reverse and I'm the one with my back against the cushions.
The view from here steals my breath.
When did she take off her shirt?
Morgan kneels between my thighs, her hair tangled from my fingers, her lips swollen from my kisses, her eyes dark with desire that mirrors my own.
She looks like a goddess. She looks like ruin. She looks like everything I've ever wanted and everything I don't deserve.
"Let me," she says, and her hands find my waistband.
I should protest. I should insist on giving her pleasure first, on worshipping every inch of her body until she forgets her own name.
But her fingers are already working my remaining clothes free, and the cool air against my heated flesh makes coherent thought impossible.
Then her mouth closes around me, and I stop thinking entirely.
The sensation rips a groan from somewhere deep in my chest. Wet heat envelops me as she takes me deeper, her tongue working the sensitive underside of my length.
My hands fist in her hair—not guiding, just holding, just needing something to anchor me while she dismantles every defense I've ever built.
"Morgan—" Her name comes out wrecked, desperate. "You don't have to—"
She responds by taking me deeper still, her throat relaxing to accommodate me, her eyes flicking up to meet mine with challenge burning in their depths.
The message is clear: I want this. Don't tell me what I have to do.
I fall back against the cushions, surrendering to sensation, to her, to whatever she wants to take from me. My hips twitch upward, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of the devastating pleasure she's building with every stroke of her tongue.
Valdric has gone utterly silent. Even my wolf recognizes that this moment belongs to her.
She sets a rhythm that drives me toward the edge with merciless efficiency. Slow strokes that make my toes curl, then faster movements that steal the breath from my lungs.
Her hand wraps around the base of me, working in concert with her mouth, and the dual sensation makes stars explode behind my closed eyelids.
I'm not going to last. I'm not going to—
"Morgan, I'm close—" The warning tears from my throat, giving her the chance to pull back.
She doesn't.
Instead, she doubles her efforts, her mouth working me with determination that borders on worship. The pressure builds at the base of my spine, coiling tighter with every pass of her tongue, every squeeze of her fingers.
The release crashes through me without mercy.
I spill into her mouth with a sound that might be her name or might be something more primal, my entire body shuddering with the force of it.
She takes everything I give her, swallowing around me in a way that prolongs the sensation until I'm gasping, oversensitive, utterly destroyed.
When she finally releases me, I can barely remember my own name.
Morgan rises to her feet with a grace that seems impossible given what she just did to me. Her eyes hold satisfaction and hunger in equal measure—satisfaction at my undoing, hunger for what comes next.
She reaches down and takes my hand.
"Come with me," she says, and there's no room for refusal in her voice.
I let her pull me from the couch on legs that feel unsteady, following her toward the fireplace where faux furs spread across the floor like an invitation. The flames cast dancing shadows across her skin, painting her in gold and amber.
She pulls me down onto the soft pile, and I go willingly, ready to worship at whatever altar she chooses to build.
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