Page 46 of Slots & Sticks
Then I pull out slowly, carefully, and press my fingers to my lips. Her taste coats them—sweet, earthy, fucking addictive. “You taste amazing. I can’t wait to get my head between those pretty thighs.”
I glance up. Dot’s watching me, pupils blown, cheeks flushed. “That was…” she pants.
“Yeah.” I press a kiss to her stomach. “You’re incredible.”
I want to taste her. Fuck, I want it bad. I want to spread her thighs and bury my face between them until she forgets her own name. But not here. Not in this weird-ass room with taxidermy staring me down and my brain buzzing with twenty questions. When I go down on her, I want it to be focused. Obsessed. Better than anything she’s read about in her werewolf books. So I stay where I am, fingers covered in her cum, and think about what just happened.
I settle beside her, fully clothed, jeans tight and unforgiving. My cock’s a throbbing curse between my legs. Denim never felt crueler. I want her hands, her mouth, her trust wrapped around me. But I don’t move. I let the ache eat me alive. She gave me her first, and I’ll be damned if I rush what comes next. Dotcurls into me, legs tangling, one hand finding mine beneath the covers.
“Do you want me to…?” she starts.
“I’m good.” I press a kiss to her forehead. “Another time, Dot. A better one.”
She doesn’t argue. Only presses closer, exhaling against my neck like she’s been holding her breath for years and finally lets it go.
Within minutes, she’s asleep—dead weight against my side, mouth parted, breathing steady.
I stare at the ceiling, every muscle drawn tight. My jeans dig into me, a reminder of exactly what I’m not doing. I want her hands on me. I want to know what it feels like when she touches back instead of only receiving. But not like this—not in a room that smells like disinfectant and desperation, not on a night she trusted me with the first piece of herself she’s ever given anyone.
So I just lie there, tracing the rhythm of her breath, memorizing the sound she makes when she exhales against my throat.
Someday, I’ll tell her that I waited too—that I wanted our first time to be something she remembers as safe and bright, not rushed and forgettable. Tonight, all I can do is hold her and let the wanting eat through me.
When sleep finally takes me, it’s with her fingers tucked in mine and the promise of another time echoing like a vow.
Chapter Ten
Dot
The young woman at the front desk of the shelter looks up from her computer as we walk in. It’s early—the shelter’s only been open for half an hour, but I’m still jittery withwhat ifs, both about the dog’s wellbeing and to… well, last night. With Camden.
Every time I blink, I’m back in that bed—his breath in my hair, the weight of his arm keeping the world quiet. I never felt so seen or so undone. Part of me wants to replay it until the edges blur; the other part keeps panicking over what it means. I felt so seen in that moment, and that’s what unravels me most. No guy has ever treated me like something to protect instead of conquer. I should feel embarrassed, but all I feel is raw and restless, like he peeled back a layer I didn’t know I had. How am I supposed to stand next to him now with that kind of intimacy between us?
I scurry over to the desk. “Hi, I’m Dot Shaw.”
“Oh!” Her eyes light up. “You’re here for Krusty Krabs! I’m Ginger. I’msoglad you saw the video. I do most of our account management on socials, and it’s good to know that the videos are hitting the right audience. Do you want to see him?”
I nod vigorously. Camden comes up to stand beside me. His arm brushes mine. Not intentional, probably, but it brands me. Last night lingers right there, crackling between us like static, and I have no idea what the rules are now. I brace for a repeat of last night with that swarm of rude puck bunnies, but this woman must not be a hockey fan. She acknowledges Camden with a small nod and waves for us to follow her.
“His girlfriend’s going to miss him,” she says as she leads us back down a hall.
I look back at Camden, who only shrugs. “Whose girlfriend?” I ask.
“Krusty’s. He’s a nervous little guy, but he loves Bo. We usually put the little dogs together in the small dog room, but...” She pushes a door open, and the rest of her words are drowned out by the wails and barking of the dogs on the other side.
There are dozens of them, all the size of beagles and larger. A few of them lower their heads and snap as we pass, but mostly they press themselves against the wire of their kennels and wag their tails. I don’t let myself look at any of them. I’m here on a mission, and I refuse to be distracted by the dogs with shiny coats and better adoption prospects.
Ginger stops in front of a kennel and points. She doesn’t bother trying to talk; she’s used to the noise. I shuffle closer and peer into the kennel, and I immediately melt. The Chinese Crested I’ve been obsessed with for the last twenty-four hours is curled into the smallest possible ball. He’s shaking so hard that the tufts of fur on his ears tremble. Next to him, looking utterly regal and unbothered, is a leggy black dog covered in matted black hair. This, I assume, is Bo. Skinbad doesn’t move when he sees us, though his bright blue eyes lock onto me with unblinking intensity. Bo looks down her long nose at us and wags her tail once.
Ginger holds up a finger to indicate that she needs a moment. She unclips the door’s lock and steps inside. Skinbad doesn’t move a muscle until she scoops him up, at which point he starts wailing and thrashing his legs, doing everything in his power to escape her grasp.
As Ginger carries him off, Bo gets to her feet and follows gracefully after them. Everything about the bigger dog givesthe impression of a princess who has fallen from grace. She’s a mess, but her poise remains intact.
Have I watched Disney’sAnastasiatoo many times? Maybe.
When Ginger does a body-block on Bo, I shake my head and point to the leash clipped to the door. Ginger shrugs and finagles the leash onto Bo’s collar. The statuesque dog stands perfectly still until she’s all hooked up. Ginger shepherds us all to a meet and greet room.
“Sorry,” she says in the sudden quiet. I can hear the muffled barking of the dogs, but now that we’re not right in front of them, they’re already calming down. “Krusty can get a little dramatic when his girlfriend is involved.”
