Page 43 of Knotting With A Stranger

Before I can respond, he heaves open the lid of the nearest freezer. Cold mist billows out, momentarily obscuring its contents. “See? All deer and boar, according to Hunter. He’s been busy the last few weeks.”

I step closer, against my better judgment, and peer inside. And sure enough, there are neatly wrapped packages labeled in black marker: VENISON STEAK, BOAR ROAST, BACKSTRAP. The organization is meticulous, almost obsessive—packages arranged by cut, by date, by animal.

“Hunter’s an organized guy,” I comment, trying to sound casual despite the way my heart hammers against my ribs from being in his presence.

“Everything has its place with him.”

I nod and bite into my toast nervously, finishing it in three quick bites. A dab of jam catches at the corner of my mouth, and I flick it away with my tongue.

When I look up, James’s staring at my mouth with such fire, I feel it like a physical touch. His pupils have dilated, darkening his eyes to nearly black. The air between us thickens, becomes charged.

“You’ve got—” he starts.

“What?” My own response is barely a whisper.

He reaches out slowly, deliberately, and brushes his thumb across the edge of my lips. “Jam.”

The touch is brief, clinical almost, but it sears through me like a brand. He pulls back his thumb, a smear of red on the pad, and—my heart stutters—brings it to his own mouth. His eyes never leave mine as he sucks the jam from his skin.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. My entire existence narrows to this moment, this man—the way his lips close around his thumb and the knowing look in his eyes as he watches my reaction.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, and the word hangs in the air, loaded with meaning.

“Well, better head back up,” I say. I turn toward the stairs, desperate to escape before I do something incredibly stupid—like throw myself at an ex-con.

But he’s there, right in front of me, moving with that unnatural speed and grace that seems at odds with his size. My back hits the wall beside the staircase before I realize what’s happening. He places his coffee cup on a step behind me, caging me in with his body without actually touching me.

I should be terrified. A rational, self-preserving woman would be reaching for her phone, for a weapon, for anything. Instead, I’m fighting the urge to close the inches between us, to press my body against his and discover if he’s as hard, as hot as he looks.

What’s wrong with me?

“Are we going to keep playing this game, or can we talk about the elephant in the room?” There’s an edge to his tone. His breath smells of coffee.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” I stammer, my heart threatening to pound right out of my chest. With my palms flat against the wall behind me to keep them from quivering, I fail miserably.

“That I know it’s you, Lily.” He leans in more, close enough I can see the different shades of gray in his irises and the individual bristles of stubble along his jaw. “My Lily. The one I used to chat with for hours, who drove me crazy, who had me smiling to myself when I should have been sleeping. The one I even dreamed about.”

The confession hangs between us, raw and honest. Part of me thrills to hear it—to know I affected him as deeply as he affected me—but the other part, the part that knows about his secret, recoils.

“You didn’t,” I scoff, trying to regain some equilibrium. “Dreaming? That’s a bit much.” My defenses rise automatically.

He shrugs, one shoulder rising and falling in a graceful motion that draws my attention to the strong column of his neck and the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest. “That’s the impact you had on me.”

“What was it?” The question slips out before I can stop it, a dangerous curiosity I can’t seem to suppress. “The dream.”

He’s so close now, I feel the swish of his breath on my face. I’m struggling to breathe, my body burning up from the inside out. I clench my thighs together as he leans in farther.

“You want to know?” His tone drops to a rough whisper that seems to bypass my ears and go straight to my core. “You were tied to my bed.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“Wrists bound to the headboard with my belt. Nothing else—just the belt and my marks all over your bare skin.” His eyes darken further, becoming almost predatory. “You’d been fighting me, spitting fire like you always do in your messages, challenging me, pushing me. So, I showed you what happens when you push an Alpha too far.”

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. This isn’t the safe, sanitized dream I’d expected. This is hungry, burning hot, dangerous. It should frighten me. It doesn’t.

“You were begging,” he continues. “Not for me to stop—for me to go harder, faster, to mark you up so you’d feel me for days afterward. Your nails dug into your own palms every time I bit down on your throat, your breasts, and the inside of your thighs. And when you came…” He stops, a muscle working in his jaw as if the memory is too intense. “When you came, you screamed my name so loud, I thought the windows would shatter.”

Heat floods my body, pooling low in my belly. I’m acutely aware of every inch of space between us, of how easy it would be to close that gap. My lips part involuntarily.

---