Page 121 of Storm
"Yes," she breathes, her head falling back to rest against my shoulder. Her voice is breathless, desperate. "That feels good."
I nearly lose myself in the sound of her satisfaction, focus narrowing to her reactions, to the way her body moves against mine. I savor the exploration, wanting to learn what makes her gasp, what makes her moan, what makes her cry out for more. One hand lingers at her breast, caressing and toying, while the other travels lower, tracing languid patterns on her inner thigh before finally venturing beneath the hem of her shorts.
She's not wearing underwear. The realization sends a jolt through me, and my fingers encounter slick heat without any barrier. The discovery draws a deep growl from my chest, alpha instincts flaring to life at the evidence of her arousal, the bare vulnerability and desire laid open to me. She whimpers in response, her hips lifting, needy and urgent, to press more firmly against my hand.
The sound is almost my undoing, and I curl my fingers against her, feeling another rush of heat and slickness that has my vision going white at the edges. I try to hold on to some semblance of control, knowing how fragile it is.
"Alpha," she gasps, the designation slipping out in her haze of pleasure. "Please."
My fingers glide against her folds, softly at first, feeling her warmth and wetness, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves. She cries out when I begin, a sharp sound of surprise and ecstasy. Her body tenses before melting completely against me. Her head falls back onto my shoulder, and I watch her expression shift through those first frantic moments. It's all desperate hunger and relief as I set a steady rhythm she seems to like, her hips moving in time with the motion of my hand.
"That's it," I murmur into her ear, feeling the tremors that ripple through her. I keep my other hand on her breast, making sure she knows I'm everywhere she needs me to be. "Let go, Storm. I've got you."
She turns suddenly, seeking my lips, and I lean in to meet her in a kiss. It's surprisingly gentle given the urgency of her body's demands. The clash of need and tenderness makes my head spin. My fingers continue their exploration, adjusting to the cues she gives with every breathless gasp and the flood of slickness that coats my hand.
When she breaks the kiss just to cry out, hot breath against my cheek, I know she's getting close. Her scent spikes, dark chocolate turning caramel-sweet with pleasure, her whole body trembling as if caught in a storm of sensation.
"Alex," she pants, reaching for me blindly, her fingers tangling in my hair in a grip that matches the tightness everywhere else. "I'm going to?—"
"I know," I soothe, increasing both the pressure and speed of my touch so she can’t possibly hold back. "Come for me, Little Storm. Let me feel you."
Her release is a violent, beautiful thing, cresting over her like a tidal wave. She trembles against my chest, her inner walls clenching around the fingers I've slipped inside, making me grit my teeth to keep from losing control. I work her through it in slow, deliberate motions, prolonging every second of her pleasure until she goes limp and boneless against me, breathing hard and sweet against my neck.
My cock throbs painfully under her weight, straining against my jeans, but I force myself to ignore it. She needed this, needed the relief from the relentless symptoms of pre-heat. My own need can wait. We’ll both get there soon enough, when her heat properly begins.
"I want to knot you," I murmur the confession into her temple, the words slipping out raw and unguarded before I can stop them. "When you're in heat. Claim you. Bond you."
I feel her stiffen slightly at my sudden admission, then relax even more completely in my arms. Her breathing evens out into something that sounds like contentment as the purr vibrates in my chest.
She makes a small, pleased sound, shifting in my lap to face me. "Promise?"
"Promise," I assure her, murmuring the word against her skin, feeling the truth of it in my bones. I pull her closer, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. "It'll be worth the wait."
We stay together like that, tangled and warm, her weight a familiar, comforting presence in my lap. Her breathing is even against my chest, a soft rhythm that matches the slow beat of her pulse where my fingers rest. My hands linger, sliding to less intimate places now, cradling her with a tenderness that makes my heart clench. I feel her relax even more, melting into the cocoon of my arms, and I let my eyes drift shut, savoring the closeness.
Her scent, that heady dark chocolate sweetness, gradually shifts. It's still overpowering, still laced with the promise of her approaching heat, but the most urgent notes have settled into something softer.
"Better?" I ask again, my lips brushing against her temple, knowing the answer but needing to hear it, anyway.
She makes a sleepy sound, a lazy smile curving her lips. "Much better," she says, her voice dreamy and light. "Thank you."
I help her shift around, adjusting her carefully so she’s perched more comfortably. This time, she sits sideways across my lap, her head tucked snugly beneath my chin. I tighten my hold, feeling her settle even more completely as she nestles against me.
My own body is still acutely aware of her—the heat of her skin, the scent that clings to the air around us, the way she presses so trustingly into me. The ache she’s stirred hasn’t disappeared, and the throb of need is a constant reminder of just how much I want her. But for now, the urgency has simmered down to a manageable pulse in the background. I can wait. We can wait.
A comfortable silence stretches between us, the calm after a storm. I think she's on the verge of drifting off, her breathing so slow and even that it lulls me too.
"Have you thought more about what Jonathan mentioned?" I ask, keeping my voice casual. "About protection. Or the lack of it."
Storm tenses slightly in my arms, then relaxes with a sigh. "I've been thinking about it," she admits. "It's just... I never thought it would be a possibility for me, you know? Having kids."
A memory surfaces—my mother's cold rejection when I, at six years old, sought comfort after a nightmare."Stop being so needy, Alexander,"she had snapped, pushing me away."Jonathan doesn't cling like this. Go back to bed."I had slunk back to my room, tears streaming silently down my face, while Jonathan watched from his own doorway, his expression carefully blank.
That was our childhood—Jonathan hardening himself against rejection, me desperate for any scrap of affection. The rare moments my mother showed me tenderness were always tinged with the cruelty of watching her simultaneously push Jonathan away."At least one of my sons has a gentle heart,"she would say, stroking my hair while pointedly ignoring Jonathan. It had driven a wedge between us for years, one we'd only begun to heal when we found Fox.
I push the memory away, focusing on Storm's face. "I want children," I tell her honestly. "I want a house full of them. Little ones to love and protect, to raise in a home where they know they're wanted, where they never have to earn affection."
Something in my tone must betray the emotion behind the words, because Storm's eyes soften as she studies my face. "You didn't have that," she says, not a question but a statement.
