Page 107 of Knot Like Other Girls

I press my lips deliberately to that corner, where an exposed canine tooth catches slightly on my bottom lip. A ragged soundtears from his throat and his body goes rigid, his strong hands tightening on my waist.

"Bella," he warns, his voice barely audible over the shower. "You don't have to?—"

I silence him with another kiss, right on that same spot, letting my tongue trace the seam where smooth meets textured. "I know," I whisper against his skin. "I want to. Every part of you, Cole. Not just the parts you think I should want."

Time seems to suspend as he processes my words, his breathing harsh and uneven. I sense the war inside him. Hope battling against years of rejection and self-loathing. I wait, letting him decide, giving him the space to accept or refuse what I'm offering.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he nods.

It's a tiny gesture, but it feels monumental. A door creaking open after being locked for years.

I smile against his skin, gratitude and tenderness flooding through me. Slowly, reverently, I continue my exploration, pressing kisses along his throat where the marks pattern his skin like abstract art. I follow the path of water droplets down to his collarbone, over the broad expanse of his chest.

His hands move restlessly at my waist, as if unsure whether to pull me closer or push me away. I sense his struggle—to accept pleasure without giving me something in return, to believe he deserves it.

"Let me," I whisper, glancing up to meet his gaze, which burns despite the uncertainty clouding it. "Let me show you how I feel about you."

His throat works as he swallows, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Then, gradually, the tension in his hands eases. He's not quite surrendering—I'm not sure Cole Beaumont knows how to fully surrender—but he's allowing. Permitting. Accepting what I'm offering rather than automatically rejecting it.

It's enough.

I continue my journey downward, tracing the ridges of his abdomen with my lips, my tongue, my fingertips. He's all hard muscle under my hands, yet when I touch him, he trembles as if I'm wielding immense power. And perhaps I am—the power to hurt, to heal, to change how he sees himself.

Reaching the cut line of his hips, I glance up again, seeking permission. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his hands now braced against the shower wall as if he needs the support. He can't quite believe that I'm here, touching him, wanting him.

Slowly, I sink to my knees on the shower floor, the warm water still flowing over us both. His eye widens slightly, full realization dawning about what I intend to do.

"Bella." His voice cracks on my name. "You don't?—"

"Need to?" I finish for him, a small smile curving my lips. "I know. But what if I want to? What if I've been thinking about this since last night?"

The shower continues as I maintain eye contact, my hands resting lightly on his thighs. I'm giving him time to process, to object if that's what he truly wants. But I can see in his eyes—in the way his pupil has grown so large—that objection is the furthest thing from his mind.

"Yes?" I ask quietly, needing his explicit permission despite his obvious arousal.

For a moment, he seems unable to form words. Then, with visible effort, he nods.

That's all I need. Holding his gaze, I wrap my hand around his shaft, feeling him throb against my palm. His reaction is immediate—a harsh exhale, his head falling back against the shower wall, one hand braced for support, the other clenching into a fist at his side.

I take my time, exploring the length and girth of him, learning what makes his breath catch, what draws those deeprumbling groans from his chest. The marks that extend here, too, coiling around his shaft like the pattern on his arm. But the contrast of textures only makes my exploration more interesting.

When I finally lower my mouth to his crown, his reaction is visceral. A strangled sound tears from his throat, somewhere between a growl and a plea. His free hand moves instinctively to my hair, not guiding or pushing, just resting there, fingers curling as if he needs the connection to anchor himself.

Drawing him deeper between my lips, I find a rhythm that has his breathing turning ragged, his thighs tensing beneath my palms. The embers of my heat burn hotter within me as I focus entirely on his pleasure, on proving to him that I want this—want him—wholeheartedly.

Each swipe of my tongue earns a new response, each movement bringing him closer to the edge. The shower surrounds us in a warm, steamy haze, but my focus is entirely on Cole. On the way his massive frame trembles under my touch, on the barely restrained power I can feel in his tensed muscles, on the musky taste of him on my tongue.

His hand in my hair tightens reflexively when I swirl my tongue around his crown, then immediately loosens as if he's afraid of hurting me.

"Bella," he groans, my name sounding both sacred and profane in his rough voice. "Fuck, that feels—you don't have to?—"

I pull back, licking my lips as I look up at him through the cascade of water. "Cole Beaumont, if you tell me I don't have to one more time, I'm going to bite you."

His eyes widen, and for a heartbeat, I wonder if I've gone too far. Then his lips twitch—just barely, but it's there—the ghost of a smile forming at the unscarred corner of his mouth.

"Understood," he says, voice strained.

I grin up at him before returning my attention to his impressive length. He's so big that my hand can barely wrap around him, and taking him into my mouth fully is impossible. But the challenge only excites me more. There's something incredibly powerful about bringing this intimidating alpha to the edge with just my mouth and hands.

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