Page 182 of Knot So Lucky

In this moment, I’m made for worship.

Made for praise.

And he’s answering the call, one inch at a time.

Every sound is a new lap—my own breath, the low rumble of his approval, the whisper of cotton sheets shifting as he maneuvers me into position like I’m the only thing on his radar. I want contact. I want pressure. I want to see how long he can hold out with the taste of me on his tongue and my skin going electric under his touch.

Every move is calculated, strategic, as if he’s running a wind-tunnel simulation of pleasure and won’t accept any variable he hasn’t engineered himself.

His hands slide up from my thighs—palms rough, searching, reverent. He traces the inside of my knee with his thumb, thenup, painting lazy circles on my skin. My hips arch off the bed automatically, chasing the drag of his knuckles, the heat of his stare as he watches my body respond.

“Jesus, Aurora,” he mutters, and it’s almost reverent. Like he’s seeing the Mona Lisa for the first time and wants to flip the glass and drag his fingers through the paint. “Every inch of you…”

He doesn’t finish. Just presses kisses down the inside of my thigh, lips so soft I almost flinch. He’s memorizing, tasting, branding me. My muscles quiver under his mouth, and when he gets close—so fucking close—I might actually scream.

But he backs off. Takes the scenic route. Bites my hip, sucks a bruise, then leans up and pulls my panties down slow, like he’s unwrapping a holiday he’s waited his whole life for.

Cool air hits the wetness pooling between my thighs and I swear I almost combust.

He groans, low in his chest, the sound vibrating straight through my core.

“So fucking wet for me,” he says, tongue flicking out to taste, to prove the point. “Always knew you’d be like this. Knew you’d unravel if someone was patient enough to make you feel good instead of just needed.”

Something in my brain shorts out.

I arch up, hands in his hair, grounding myself with the feel of him—soft at the nape, wild everywhere else. His mouth is gentle, at first. Licking, tasting, learning. He pushes one finger inside, then a second—slow, deliberate, curling just right to make my vision white out for a second.

I want to come. I need to come.

But he won’t let me.

Every time I get close, he eases off, soothing with his tongue or thumb, holding me at a trembling, furious edge. Like he wants me so desperate I stop thinking in words entirely.

And it’s working.

My head is thrown back, legs over his shoulders, thighs shaking so hard I’m embarrassed, but he just smiles against my skin. “Good girl,” he whispers, and shit, that does it.

He brings me up again.And again.Letting me collapse in his arms only to haul me back to the edge. I’m a wreck. Slick is everywhere, the scent of it thick in the room, Alpha and Omega mixing into something that feels dangerous, forbidden, like gasoline on hot asphalt.

Finally, he gives in.

He moves up my body, lining himself up so I feel the length of him press right where I’m throbbing, and for a split second, we just breathe—foreheads together, chests heaving, soaked in sweat and need and want so raw it makes my eyes sting.

He pushes in slow. Slow enough to feel every ridge, to memorize the way I open for him, greedy and grateful and desperate. The stretch is maddening—fullness like nothing, like every other time was a dress rehearsal for this.

My name.

He says it like a prayer and a curse.

“Aurora—fuck, you’re perfect—made for me, you know that? Meant to be right here?—”

I break.

The orgasm hits like a car crash—sudden, violent, shuddering. I claw his back, arch my hips, try to rip him deeper, don’t even care if I draw blood. He groans, then starts to move, not rushed but relentless, pounding slow and deep like he’s got all night and a score to settle.

He never stops talking.

Every mindless thrust is punctuated with more praise, more filth, sometimes both at once.