Page 80 of A Wolf of War
His.
Steam wafted around them in hazy ribbons, water streaming down their bodies as their mouths moved together in a kiss that felt like home. Milo held her face gently in his palms, thumbs brushing across her wet cheeks as though she might break if he pressed too firmly. He wanted her with a ferocity that made his chest ache, but he didn’t let it rule him. Not now. Not when she was in such a raw, delicate state.
She leaned into him, her body softening as if she belonged there, and he fought the urge to deepen the kiss, to take everything he craved. His wolf snarled at the restraint, but Milo forced himself to stay grounded, to hold back. She needed tenderness, not hunger. She needed the man right now, not the beast.
Still, his heart thundered with disbelief. Willow. His Willow. After everything—the endless hours of waiting, the dark plans, the blood and violence that had paved the road to this moment—she was kissing him likehe was worth trusting.
Milo let out a slow breath, resting his forehead against hers between kisses, steadying himself against the weight of it all. He didn’t deserve her, not really. But he would spend every last breath proving that she was safe in his arms, that he could be more than the monster he had been trained to be.
And as her lips brushed his again, featherlight and sweet, he thought he might die from the sheer wonder of it.
The steam wrapped tighter around them, clinging to their skin, making every bead of water shimmer like little stars under the bathroom light. Milo braced a hand against the tile, trying to steady himself, because Willow was shifting in front of him, lowering slowly, deliberately, until her knees met the slick shower floor.
For a heartbeat, he thought he’d imagined it. His chest tightened, his breath caught. But then she looked up at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, lips parted just enough to undo him.
“Willow…” His voice was roughened by restraint, the single word catching in his throat. “You don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” she whispered, water dripping from her hair, trailing down her cheeks like the diamonds hewanted to shower her in. Her hands slid over his thighs, teasing, feather-light, nails grazing just enough to make his muscles twitch. She was all shy determination and quiet bravery, and it nearly broke him entirely.
She didn’t know, couldn’t know, how close he was to grabbing that beautiful face and fucking her throat until she was choking around his cock.
The sight of her like that—on her knees, hair plastered to her shoulders, mouth hovering near his rock-hard length with such devastating intent—waged war on his control. The wolf in him wanted to make his claim, to fist her hair and guide her exactly where he needed her. But Milo forced his hands to remain at his sides, fists clenched, every instinct screaming as he gave her the space to lead.
She toyed with him first, fingertips gliding down the length, brushing against the head, testing the edges of his composure. Her smirk—soft but wicked—nearly made him lose his balance.
“Willow…” He choked out her name like a plea, tilting his head back against the tile with a groan. He was undone already, and she had barely even started.
He dared a glance downward, meeting her gaze again. The look she gave him—half tender, halfsinful—made his pulse erratic. She had no idea what she was doing to him. Or maybe she knew exactly.
Either way, he hoped she never stopped.
Milo did his best to stay still. This wasn’t about taking. This was about letting her—his mate—explore, taste, claim him in her own way. She needed the freedom to familiarize with him.
The first brush of her lips against his shaft made him groan, deep and raw, echoing in the small space. His hand slid into her wet hair, not pulling, just anchoring himself against the storm she stirred in him. She kissed her way up toward the head in maddening little patterns, and every nerve in his body lit up like fire.
“God, Willow…” he rasped, the sound of his own voice startling him. He hadn’t known he could sound so broken. His hips quivered with the effort of holding back.
She looked up at him then, eyes bright with mischief and devotion, and it nearly dropped him to his knees beside her.
Willow parted her lips and finally took his cock between them, her tongue warm and teasing as she worked him deeper down her throat. She choked and gagged, eyes filling with tears, and the beast inside him roared. Milo’s hand tightened in her wet hair, every muscle in his body trembling with restraint.
Water streamed over her shoulders, glinting in the light as she set her rhythm, slow at first, deliberate. He let out a sound that was half-groan, half-growl, the noise bouncing off the tile.
“Easy, sweetheart…” His words came rough, even though she clearly wasn’t listening. She pushed herself further, daring to take more of his cock. When she gagged softly, a wet, choked sound, he nearly lost his grip on his control. The sight of her, water dripping down her cheeks, determination in her eyes, undid him more than anything.
She moaned around him, and the vibration shot straight through his body like lightning. Milo swore, head slamming gently back against the wall, vision blurring at the edges. The sound of her pleasure did something inexplicable to him.
And then, she did something that almost made him lose his grip.
Willow lifted her other hand, wrapping both of them around the thick swell at his base. Her fingers trembled slightly, but the squeeze was intentional, deliberate. The pressure made his vision spark white.
Milo’s head snapped back, shoulders crashing into the slick tile as he let out an unrestrained howl thattore from deep in his chest. The sound cracked midway, unraveling into a guttural groan that echoed hard against the walls, reverberating back at him like proof of his own undoing.
Every nerve lit up at once, his body jerking under her touch, hips twitching despite his desperate attempt to stay grounded. The water pouring over him only heightened it, sluicing down his chest in hot rivulets as his pulse thundered in his ears. He had never felt so close to breaking—so entirely at her mercy.
Willow’s eyes flicked up to him, wide and luminous, watching the way he came apart for her. The sight alone nearly undid him a second time, his chest heaving as he forced air into his lungs, clutching the back of her head as if she were the only thing tethering him to the ground.
“Fuck, Willow, I’m going to—I’m—” His hoarse voice faltered, cracking beneath the weight of everything she was pulling out of him. The warning tangled on his tongue, too broken to finish, because she was relentless, merciless in her devotion.
