Page 180 of Knot So Lucky

The Softest Rebellion

~AURORA~

One second you’re alone at the mercy of the world, and the next you’re in someone’s arms and everything else—threats, racing, sabotage, hunger—fades to static.

I come awake slow, consciousness seeping back like oil through engine parts. Not the panicked jolt of an alarm or the red-line rush of a snapped tether that sends adrenaline burning through my veins.

It's more of a drift—floating up out of sleep, senses recalibrating one by one: first the silk sheets twisted around my calves, then the weight of bone-deep exhaustion still clinging to my limbs like spent fuel.

The heavy weight of an arm around my waist, fingers splayed possessively across my stomach. The trace of heat against my back, radiating through my thin clothes, scorching a path from my shoulder blades all the way down to my goddamn thighs, which are tangled with legs longer and harder than mine.

Elias.

His name floats up first, the only thing that makes sense.

My brain is a tangle of memories:the drive, the wine, the taste of osso buco on his fork, the way his lips marked my throat in public without a second thought.

My body is still humming from the aftermath, but apparently that’s not enough for some twisted part of me.

I want more…

I turn. Or try to—there's barely a handspan between the textured wallpaper and the edge of the mattress, and his arm lies across my ribcage like a steel bar, pinning me in place as if I'm his only anchor in a storm-tossed ocean.

We're both fully dressed.. The emerald gown with its plunging back still clings to me, its satin lining whispering cool secrets against my feverish skin, molding to every curve in ways that feel positively indecent now that the clock has struck midnight.

His shirt is crisp white cotton, unbuttoned far enough to reveal the hollow of his throat, the fabric crumpled and twisted where my desperate fingers clawed at it. Charcoal dress pants still hug his thighs. No jacket—probably flung carelessly across some piece of furniture.

His feet are bare, tanned skin against white sheets, long toes and a vulnerable arch that somehow makes the entire scene feel infinitely more dangerous.

I turn anyway. Press my face into his chest, drag a deep inhale like I’m refueling from wherever he gets his fix.

Sandalwood, ozone, steel—and something caramel-sweet and hungry that has my Omega instincts batting at the bars of the cage.

I want to bite. I want to be bitten. I want?—

His hand slides lower on my back, palm flattening, then drifting downward over the curve of my ass in a way that’s anything but accidental.

He grumbles—something low and incoherent, probably Italian or the universal language of men woken up by trouble.

I work my hips backward deliberately, making sure he feels every inch of my intent.

“Aurora,” he’s barely there, as if he’s drifting between the world of wakefulness and sleep. “Sleep. Still early.”

“But what if I can’t sleep?”

His eyes open. Not all at once—lids heavy, irises blown so wide the green looks like black glass. That is not the stare of a man who’s actually tired. That’s the stare of a predator who’s just realized dinner is being served in bed.

He squeezes my ass, hard enough to make me gasp and then arch back against him, drawing a sharp line of heat from spine to core.

“Well,” his voice is rough velvet, that edge of control that always precedes the inevitable slide into chaos, “I can help with that.”

The next sound is more growl than laugh, and then his mouth is on mine.

Slow at first. Not lazy—nothing about this is unintentional—but exploratory, like he’s running diagnostics before pushing the throttle. His lips are soft and unhurried, molding to mine with a precision that makes my pulse trip the fuck out. My hands brace against his chest, sliding up to fist in his shirt. He tastes like the wine from dinner and something sharp at the edges, metal and adrenaline and the promise of sex that’s going to outlast us both.

The kiss deepens, fast.

What starts as reconnaissance becomes attack, his tongue pressing into my mouth, uncaring of etiquette or breath. I bite his lip and he answers by cupping my ass and hauling me flush, so there’s no doubt left about what’s happening here.