Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
I wiggle my wrinkled toes in delight.
And then an image of Cadoc by the bed, tucking a flat sheet into hospital corners, pops into my head.
Cadoc in my nest.
My nipples, already hard from the chill, tighten to aching peaks.
My wolf rumbles.
Why are we into this idea?
A squirminess invades my languid limbs. A restlessness.
The last time Cadoc and I were in that bed together, it ended in disaster.
I don’t think it would end that way again.
It’s not even a leap of faith. If he tried to drop me like a hot potato again, I could hold him with the bond. It’s strong enough now. I know it for a fact.
But I wouldn’t put myself in that position again, willingly. And why am I even thinking about it?
I sit up straight in the tub and wring out my dripping hair. Yeah, my body’s feeling relaxed and happy, but that’s no reason to think about sex.
Cadoc emerges from the trailer, and he freezes on the metal step. He’s cast in shadow, but I know where he’s looking. He’s staring at my breasts. They’re fuller than they were the night we mated. My nipples are darker—more chestnut than almond.
I rest my back against the tub, close my eyes, and let my head fall back.
I can feel his eyes. Heat rushes between my legs. The bond runs hot and needy.
“Rosie,” he says softly.
I cup water in my palms, releasing it to flow down the valley between my breasts, tickling their sensitive undersides.
He stalks to his place by the fire and takes his seat, tense and awkward. He’s thinking what I’m thinking.
Because I’m thinking it?
Maybe. I enjoy the rush of power. Somehow, it settles me.
He coughs to clear his throat. “Listen, Rosie, that night—“
“No.” I cut him off. “I don’t want to talk about that. It was the worst night of my life.”
There’s pain in the bond, and I don’t mean to be harsh, but I don’t want to be a character in that miserable story, not in this moment. I don’t want to be the rejected mate, and I don’t want him to be sorry.
“Rosie,” he says because he’s arrogant and doesn’t know when it’d be better to shut up. “Until I fucked it up, it was the best moment of my entire life.”
His head is bent, his forearms braced on his thighs. His eyes glow in the firelight.
He doesn’t seem to expect a response.
I think he’d sit there silent all night as I shrivel into a prune.
I think he’s telling the truth.
Iknow he is.
Excitement thrums in my belly. I have an idea.
I want a redo.
My choice. His choice.
My nerves jump like crazy, but I grip the sides of the tub and push myself to standing. Water sluices down my skin as the cold hits. I resist the urge to wrap my arms around myself. I leave them at my sides, and as gracefully as I can manage with my knees knocking, I step out of the tub and into my boots.
I’m aiming for seduction, but I’m not walking barefoot through dirt after my bath.
He’s not looking at my boots as I cross to the trailer. I pause right before the step and glance over my shoulder. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just keeping my posture straight and letting my ass sway.
He’s on his feet. Wired. Swirly, swirly silver eyes.
I’ve been flushed since I stood, but now my cheeks, my chest—I’m generating heat.
He wants to come to me—he’s wild to come to me—but his self-control is unshakable. He won’t move unless he knows I’m sure.
I give him a smile.
His hands ball into fists.
I yank his leash. He’s on me in seconds, scooping me into his arms, somehow wedging me through the narrow door, carrying me to our bed. It smells like fabric softener, which I usually hate, but I inhale it now. I love how it mingles with Cadoc’s woodsiness and the traces of shampoo and soap.
I kick off my boots. He lays me gently in the middle of the mattress. I tuck my legs to the side, sit on my hip, and smooth my hands over the fresh, clean quilt. There are new pillows, too. Three of them. My pillow has a crisp new cotton case. I can’t stop smiling.
He can’t take his eyes off my mouth.
He stands a few feet from the bed like a soldier facing a tank.
“What, uh—” And then I guess he figures it’s not hot to ask me, or maybe he figures out that I don’t know any more than him. He fumbles at his green flannel shirt, tugging it over his head, tousling his dark hair.
The stars and moon are bright tonight, and the blinds are pulled all the way up. I can see the carved slabs of his pecs and cut ridges of his abs. I can see the veins twitch in his forearms as he clenches his fists. From nerves? From holding himself back?
My gaze travels down to his waist, and it’s like a prompt. His fingers go to his zipper. His pants fall, and his gray boxer-briefs follow.
Now I can see more of him than he can see of me. My achy pussy is hidden between my legs, but his cock is rock hard and pointing straight up at the ceiling.
I took that inside me?
I swallow. You see a lot of dick on runs, but they’re usually not hard, and I’ve never seen one as big as Cadoc’s. Except maybe Pritchard, and that was an accident, and I do not want to be thinking about that now or ever.
Cadoc takes a steadying breath. I guess he’s gonna stand there naked while I stare at his cock.
In a way, this was easier when I was in heat. I knew exactly what I was doing.
I scoot over and hope he takes the hint. He does. He crawls in beside me and sits, one knee bent so I don’t have an eyeful of his erection anymore. We’re both facing the front of the trailer. We can see the Land Rover out of the window.
I’ve never been more aware of another person in my life. His hunger, his rigid self-control, his need to protect me, the tenderness under it all, it flows into me through the bond and rushes through my limbs to the tips of my fingers and toes.
I don’t know what else to do, so I lay on my side to face him, propping my head in my hand.
He startles the slightest bit, and then he lays down, too, facing me. We’re eye to eye. His legs dangle off the foot of the bed.
I rest a hand on the quilt.
He picks it up and places it on his chest, over his heart, where the bond connects. He holds it there. I can feel the thump, thump.
He can’t keep his eyes on mine. His gaze darts to my breasts, to the “v” between my thighs, to the dip of my hip and the gentle swell of my belly.
“I don’t want to hurt it,” he whispers deep and low. Like we’re telling secrets.
“You won’t. It’s really small.”
“How big?”
“The book says it’s the size of a cherry. Or a strawberry. I forget which.”