Chapter 19: The Morning After
Awareness returned in a slow, warm seep.It wasn’t waking, not really. It was a gradual ascent through layers of exhausted satisfaction into a single, overwhelming point of sensation.
Aurora was still full of him.
The knot had subsided enough for them to separate in the deep of the night, but in her sleep, in the relentless tide of her heat, she’d sought him out.Now, as dawn tinted the room the color of bruised peaches, they were joined again. Not as fiercely locked as before, but he was buried inside her, soft yet substantial, a part of her landscape. Her back was pressed against his chest, his heavy arm slung over her waist, his hand splayed possessively on her belly. His even breaths stirred the fine hairs at her nape.
Her heat was a low, insistent throb between her hips, a banked fire ready to blaze with the slightest provocation. She shifted, a minute roll of her pelvis, and felt him stir in response, thickening within her.A low groan vibrated against her back. “Fuck, Aurora.” His voice was gravel, roughened by sleep and use. “You’re still going.”
She couldn’t speak. Could only press her face into the pillow and nod, a helpless little movement. His hand on her belly tensed, then began to move in a slow, deliberate circle.“M’sorry,” she whispered finally, her voice cracking.
“Don’t be.” He nuzzled the junction of her neck and shoulder, his lips hot. “It’s your biology. Doesn’t turn off like a faucet.” He moved his hips, a shallow, testing thrust that made her gasp. “Feel this?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He didn’t rush.The frenzy of the day before was a memory.This was different. A slow, deep reclaiming. He moved with a tired, devastating patience, each stroke measured and thorough, as if he had all the time in the world to map her insides. His hand left her belly and slid down between her legs, his fingers finding the swollen, sensitive peak of her. He worked her in time with his thrusts, a counterpoint of pressure that had her panting, her hands fisting in the sheets.“Rhys,” she whimpered.
“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He picked up the pace, just a fraction, his breath coming harder.“Come for me. Let me feel it.”
It built not as a crashing wave, but as a rising tide, inevitable and all-consuming. His teeth scraped gently over her bonding gland, and that tiny, possessive threat was the final key. She came with a broken cry, her body clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses. He followed her over, his own release a hot, silent rush, his forehead dropping between her shoulder blades as he shuddered.
They lay like that for long minutes, slick and breathless, still connected. The sun climbed higher, painting stripes of gold across the floor. Eventually, he softened and slipped from her, and she felt an immediate, profound sense of loss.A small, pathetic sound escaped her.
“Shhh.” He turned her onto her back, his big frame hovering over her.He looked wrecked.Beautifully so. Dark stubble shaded his jaw, his hair was a mess, and his eyes held a turmoil she couldn’t decipher. He brushed a sweaty strand of hair from her forehead. “You’re okay.”
“Are you?” The question came out before she could stop it.He stared at her. Then a short, surprised laugh left him.“No. I’m not fucking okay.” He said it without malice.A simple statement of fact.“I was supposed to fuck once and ghost. Now look at me.”
Her heart squeezed.“You can go. If you need to.”
He studied her face—the earnest worry in her wide hazel eyes, the bitten-rose color of her lips. She meant it.She’d let him go.The realization did something dangerous to him.
“Don’t be stupid,” he muttered, rolling off the bed. The sight of him, all towering muscle and vivid tattoos striding naked across her fluffy white rug, was momentarily breathtaking.He disappeared into her bathroom.
She heard the sink run.When he returned, he held a warm, damp washcloth. Without a word, he gently parted her legs and began to clean her. The cloth was soft, the water warm, his touch clinical yet impossibly tender. She watched his focused face, the set of his brows, and something molten and fragile poured into her chest.
“You don’t have to do that,” she whispered.“Yes, I do.” He didn’t look up. “You’re sore.And you’re still in heat. Keeping you clean is basic care.” He finished and dropped the cloth on the nightstand.“When did you last eat?”
She had to think. “Yesterday.The fruit.”
He made a low, disapproving sound. “That’s not enough.You need protein.Carbs. Water.” He stood up, a dominant silhouette against the bright window. “I’m making you food.”
“You don’t know where anything is.”
“I’ll find it.” He pulled on his boxers and jeans, leaving the button undone. He left the room, and she heard the distant sounds of her kitchen being explored—cupboards opening, the fridge humming.Aurora curled onto her side, pulling the sheet to her chin. The room smelled overwhelmingly of them—of sex and sweat and satisfied alpha. Her body ached in places she’d never known could ache.Her mind felt scrubbed raw, vulnerable. He was in her kitchen.Making her food.The anonymous alpha from the chat site was currently judging her spice rack.
She must have dozed, because the next thing she knew, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, a tray balanced on his knees. On it was a large glass of water, two pieces of buttered toast cut into soldiers, and a bowl of what looked like scrambled eggs.
“Up,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
She pushed herself up, the sheet pooling around her waist.He set the tray over her legs.“Eat. All of it.”
The toast was perfectly golden.The eggs were fluffy, if a little oversalted. It was the best food she’d ever tasted. She ate ravenously, under his watchful gaze, as he sipped from the glass of water she’d left on the nightstand.
“How long does a first heat usually last?” he asked, his eyes on the window.
“I… I don’t know.A few days?Maybe four or five?” she said between mouthfuls.
He nodded slowly.“Your fever broke last night.The worst of it might be over. But the urge… it’ll come in waves.”
She put a piece of toast down, her appetite fading as a new kind of anxiety took hold. “So… what happens now?”
Rhys turned to look at her.The morning light carved the hard planes of his face, catching the silver in his eyes. He saw the fear there, the desperate hope she was trying to hide. He thought of his empty apartment, the silent garage, the ghost of his ex’s perfume in a closet he still hadn’t cleared out.He thought of the promise of anonymity, now ashes.
“Now,” he said, his voice low and final, “I see you through it. You’re not doing this alone.” He reached over and took her hand, his calloused fingers enveloping hers. It was a simple gesture, but it felt like an anchor. “Eat your eggs, Aurora.”
She picked up her fork, her vision blurring.He wasn’t leaving.Not yet. The cage he’d spoken of, the one he’d felt closing around him, now held two. And for the first time since he’d walked through her door, the feeling wasn’t of being trapped, but of being, impossibly, exactly where he was supposed to be.