The rhythm was already set.
And they were ready to follow.
Mikhailis's presence loomed close—a heat, a promise, the unspoken length of his desire brushing against Cerys's hip. The lone wolf's breath caught as he gathered her into his arms, feeling the tension carved into her every muscle, the years of holding back, the silent ache that had been hers alone.
She was used to steel, not this—this trembling, forbidden warmth, this weight pressed flush to her skin, too much and not enough all at once. Her fingers dug into his back, clutching at him as if afraid he might vanish and take the aching promise with him.
Their lips met, fierce and wet—tongues sliding, curling, tasting, claiming. The kiss was not gentle; it was hungry, desperate, a meeting of equals who had been forced to watch, to want, for far too long.
Cerys gasped, her words spilling into the air, ragged and shamed and triumphant all at once:
"IT'S—AH—MMHH!!—IT'S SO BIG—MMHH! SLRP—"
