Page 30 of Knot So Lucky

He grunts—low, animal, half warning—and then he pounces.

Crawling up the bed, hands splayed, devouring the distance between us like it’s his last lap on the circuit. He barely pauses to breathe before his face is buried between my legs, nose pressedto my mound, tongue lashing out to lap the first slick bead he finds.

I let my head fall back, spine arching, knuckles white as I fist the sheets behind me.

The first lick is always the worst—shock, electricity, every nerve in my clit firing so hard my vision goes white around the edges. He doesn’t hesitate, not for a second. He eats me like he’s starved, mouth greedy, tongue twisting between my folds, lapping up everything I give, and then coming back for more.

The noises—god, the noises—obscene, wet, all tongue and suction and the gasping mess of my own breath rattling around the room. I spread wider, just to see if he’ll lose his mind; he does. He reaches around and grabs my thighs, shoving them up and out, bending me further than I thought was possible without a studio mirror and a foam mat. I get the tiniest flash of triumph—it’s not just pole class, it’s the years I spent refusing to be contained by anyone’s expectations.

My pussy clenches again, hard enough to hurt. He notices as he groans into me—mouth vibrating against my clit, the sound traveling all the way into my bones. I want to scream, but that would be admitting weakness, so instead I choke it down, let it come out as a strangled, high-pitched whine.

He shifts tactics, tongue flicking my clit in light, relentless pulses, then plunging deep inside, fucking me with his mouth the way he does with his cock—methodical, ruthless, perfectly tuned to ruin me. My hands scramble for anything to hold, fingers catching in his hair, yanking hard enough to make his eyes water if he could see straight.

My body starts to vibrate—this hot, fuzzy tension winding up in my gut, threatening to snap. I feel every second of it, every slow drag of his tongue, every hard suck on my swollen flesh, every slick wave that rushes out and coats his chin.

I don’t last.

I never do, not when he eats me out like this.

Orgasm builds so fast it’s like being hit by a runaway tire, slamming through me with enough violence to make my back arch off the headboard. I try to warn him—it’s the decent thing to do—but all that comes out is a choked sob, and then I explode.

Slick sprays out in a messy, mortifying rush, splattering his face, his mouth, the sheets underneath us. He fucking moans—then doubles down, sucking and licking everything like a man possessed, swallowing it all and coming back for seconds.

When he finally pulls away, his chin is glossy with my release, and he’s just grinning—wild, victorious, totally in his element.

“You’re a fucking mess,” he mutters, voice rough with satisfaction.

I giggle—no, actually giggle, which feels illegal, but whatever, I’m high as a kite and not apologizing.

“That’s why you’re helping me clean up, yes?”

He groans—louder this time—and instead of answering, he brings his hand up and flicks my clit, hard.

I jolt, whole body going tight, vision blurring for a second as aftershocks rattle through me. He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, then another, then works his way up my torso like he’s climbing a mountain and I’m the prize waiting at the summit.

His mouth finds my abs, kisses hot and sharp over muscles still quivering from the afterglow, then up to my ribs where he lingers, breathing me in, letting our scents tangle in the air. Burnt cedar, vanilla, sweat, sex—it’s a fucking symphony, and I want to bottle it, wear it as a fuck-you to every dumbass Alpha in the paddock.

He kisses up, chest to chest, hand braced on my side, until our lips crash together—hard, desperate, all teeth and tongue and the taste of my own slick on his mouth. He kisses like fighting, like fucking, like there’s nothing else worth living for.

And then he slides up, knees braced on either side of my thighs, lining the head of his cock against my entrance. It’s hot, hard, leaking against my swollen folds, and just the tease—just the brush of it—makes me want to shatter all over again.

We lock eyes, neither willing to blink, both wanting to win.

But there are no winners here, just the wreckage of whatever comes next.

It’s perfect.

The way he presses in—slow, relentless, an inch at a time—makes my whole world go white around the edges.

The head of his cock teases, then pushes, not rough but not gentle either, just a steady, calculated pressure that spreads me open and fills me until I’m two heartbeats from combustion. He wants to savor it—I can tell, from the way his jaw clenches, the way his hands shake for a second before he steadies himself against my ribs.

He pins me with one arm beside my head, fingers splayed in the sheets, the other grips my hip so hard I know there’ll be bruises in the morning, black and blue, fingerprints I’ll wear like medals. He stares down at me, silver eyes molten, and for a split second I want to flinch from the intensity.

Not fear—just the shock of being seen, really seen, exposed to a depth that has nothing to do with flesh and everything to do with the years we spent going toe-to-toe, never giving an inch.

I wrap my legs around his waist, lock my ankles at the small of his back, and haul him in deeper. The angle changes—he sinks even further, lifting my hips off the bed with the force of his thrust, and just like that, I’m full. Overfull. Crammed to the limit.

We don’t move at first. Not really. Just savor the stretch, the contact, the sensation of bodies built for friction struggling not to explode right out of the gate.