Page 58 of Knot Your Karma
“Reed, that’s—oh God, I can’t—it’s too much, but also not enough, how is that possible?—”
“Let me give it to you. Let me give you everything.”
I kiss my way down her body, pausing to map every sensitive spot, every place that makes her gasp and writhe beneath me.
By the time I reach her panties, she’s already arching against me like I’m the solution to every problem she’s ever had, and that honeyed scent is so concentrated I’m half-convinced it’s rewiring my brain chemistry in real time.
“Please.” She gasps, lifting her hips so I can strip away thelast barrier between us. “Please, Reed, I need—I can’t even say it, but I need?—”
The words die when I put my mouth on her, replaced by a cry that tears from her throat like I’ve solved every urgent need she’s been carrying.
I don’t tease, don’t build slowly. She needs satisfaction, needs the relief that only this kind of care can provide. I use every skill I have focused entirely on giving her body what it’s craving.
“Reed.” She sobs, hips rolling against my mouth in frantic rhythm while her hands twist in the quilt beneath her like she’s trying to anchor herself to something solid. “I can’t—it’s too much—but don’t stop, please don’t stop, I need?—”
“I know what you need.” I murmur against her, adding fingers to complement what my mouth is doing, feeling the way she clenches around me like her body is trying to keep me exactly where I am. “Let me give it to you. Let go, Karma. Trust me.”
When she comes apart beneath me, the sound she makes is pure relief—like every tense, frantic need she’s been carrying all day finally found exactly what it was looking for. Which, apparently, was my mouth, and I’m weirdly proud of that fact.
Her whole-body arches like every muscle just discovered its purpose, and I can feel every wave of her release against my mouth like I’m the conductor of the world’s most intimate symphony. Not exactly the metaphor I expected my brain to come up with, but here we are.
I stay with her through every aftershock until she’s completely boneless among her perfectly arranged pillows, and her scent finally settles from frantic-honeyed-crisis to something that smells like satisfaction.
Which should probably concern me—how much I love that my scent is all over her—but honestly, I’m too satisfied to overthink it right now.
“Holy shit.” She breathes when she can speak again, chest still heaving as she looks at me with dazed satisfaction and pupils still blown wide with endorphins. “That was—I didn’t know it could feel like that. Like, I knew it was supposed to feel good, but that was like... that was like every romance novel I’ve ever read decided to have a conference in my nervous system?—”
I settle beside her and pull her against my chest, satisfaction thrumming through me as she curls against me like a satisfied cat. The evidence of our intimacy clings to both of us—her hair mussed from my fingers, my shirt carrying traces of her warmth.
The possessive satisfaction that floods my chest should probably worry me, but apparently my beta instincts have some surprisingly territorial opinions about satisfied omegas.
She curls against me like I’m her personal heating pad, and while her scent has settled from panic-mode-nesting to something more manageable, there’s still that underlying intensity humming beneath the surface.
Pre-heat intermission, not pre-heat finale. My brain is already trying to calculate logistics for round two, which is either impressive forward thinking or pathetic over-planning. Probably both.
“Reed.” She speaks quietly. “I need to tell you something, and it’s probably going to sound crazy.”
“Try me. I’ve got a pretty high tolerance for crazy, especially after the day we’ve both had.”
“I think I’m starting to trust you. Like, really trust you. With all of this, with whatever comes next. And that terrifies me because trusting people hasn’t worked out well for me before, and what if this is just my brain being grateful because someone finally understood what I needed? What if once the hormones settle down, I realize this was all just biology and not—” The words tumble out in a rush, her heart hammering against my chest where she’s pressed against me.
“Hey.” I stroke her hair, gentle and sure. “What we just shared? That wasn’t just biology, Karma. Biology brought us together, but what we’re building is choice. My choice, your choice, all of our choices.”
“Even when I’m frantic and needy and rearranging furniture at three in the afternoon like some sort of nesting-obsessed interior decorator?”
“Especially then. Though I have to say, your interior decorating skills under pressure are impressive. This nest could be featured in Better Homes and Gardens.”
That gets a laugh, genuine and warm, and I feel some of the tension leave her body.
“Reed?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For understanding what I needed. For not making me feel broken or wrong for needing it.” Her fingers trace patterns on my chest, touch gentle but certain.
“Thank you for trusting me with it. For letting me take care of you.”
The shop bell jingles with the cheerful announcement that someone just walked into what is definitely a compromising situation. We both freeze like teenagers caught making out in their parents’ basement, except we’re adults and this is significantly more naked.
