Page 32 of Knot So Lucky

I clamp so hard on his cock he yells, hips jerking, and I feel him lose it, come flooding hot and thick inside, filling me to overflowing.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even fucking slow down. The minute the wave crashes over me, his hips go into overdrive, grinding every nerve raw, wringing every tremor out of my body until I’m a livewire pulled too tight, beyond pleasure, beyond pain. My nails gouge bloody furrows into his skin—payback for the bruises blooming already along my hips, my ribs, my throat. I want to shout at him, curse him out for ruining me like this, but my voice is gone—wrecked by the scream that ripped out of my chest as I came.

He keeps at it, cock still hard inside me, even as my body clamps down in desperate aftershocks, milking every last drop he can give. He drags his teeth along my jawline, lips hot at my ear, and every filthy word he spills just makes me pulse harder, makes the heat between us spike until I can’t tell where I end and he begins. Our slick is everywhere—on his abs, his thighs, the sheets, pooling under my ass and leaking in sticky rivulets down the backs of my knees. There’s no dignity left, just this animal mess and the shuddering, helpless way we clutch at each other.

He rocks into me, shallow and relentless, grinding our bodies together until I’m clawing at his back, trying to push him deeper,further, anything to make the world stop spinning. I can feel him—hot, swollen, pushing past the point of reason—but he won’t let up. Not until I’m wrung out and empty, not until nothing remains but the echo of every time I’ve hated him, loved him, needed him like an addict needs the hit.

My head slams back into the pillow, and I gasp for air, lungs burning. He bites my neck, hard enough to leave a mark, then pulls back to look at me—hair wild, silver eyes blown to hell. There’s nothing smug in his smile now. Just raw, unfiltered hunger, and a kind of desperate triumph that splits my chest open from the inside.

He pistons his hips again, building a rhythm that’s less about show and more about survival. Sweat drips off his brow, slides down the line of his nose, mingling with the salt on my own skin. The bed creaks, frame shuddering with every thrust, but I don’t care if the whole building hears. Let them. Let them know we’re alive, that we survived another round, that nothing—not rivalry, not pride, not the world’s expectations—can keep our bodies from crashing together like this.

He leans down, tongue tracing the shell of my ear. “Not done,” he rasps, voice blown and broken. “Not until you give up, Lane.”

I laugh, ragged and mean, and grind up to meet him.

“You first, dumbass.”

He grins, and then he’s slamming into me again, deeper, rougher, until my vision goes white and my body starts to splinter apart all over. Another climax hits—sharper this time, meaner—and I choke on my own moan, legs trembling so hard I can’t control them. He follows, hips stuttering as he buries himself to the hilt, and I feel another burst of heat flood out of him, mixing with the mess already inside me.

He doesn’t stop. Keeps grinding, keeps thrusting, dragging out every shockwave until I can’t even find up from down. Ourcombined slick spills out in a rush, soaking the sheets, running down my thighs. My whole body shudders and shakes, locked to his, unwilling to let go.

We collapse—no, we crash— tangled in sweat, cum, and whatever shredded remnants of bedding survived the impact. Neither of us moves.Neither of us can.His weight holds me down, my arms and legs still wrapped around his body, and for one perfect, silent moment, the war is over.

We’re both breathing so hard I think the building might vibrate from it. There’s no world but this—his cock softening inside me, the mark of his teeth on my shoulder, the salt of his sweat slicking my breasts. The city outside is dead silent, as if the rest of the world finally gave up trying to keep pace.

Aftershock leaves my body trembling, but I hold him in, shivering around the last, flexing inches of his cock, refusing to let go. I want him to feel every aftershock, every desperate pulse, every throb in his knot as it swells with the need to lock us, keep us fused until the fever burns off and we’re both nothing but ghosts in the ashes.

I drag my hand down his back, palm burning from the raw friction, then around to his hip, greedy for the heat and the fullness and the pulse of him, still so rigid inside me it borders on violence.

He pulls out slowly, as if he doesn’t want to, but knowing he can’t take any more willpower to fight that dragging urge to join us.

My fingers find their favorite prize—a handspan’s worth of thick, slick length—and then the hard, throbbing bulge of his knot. I wrap my hand around it, tight as a fist, and squeeze, just once, the way I know he likes. His entire body jolts, the muscle in his thigh clenching like a misfiring piston. I start to massage it, slow, almost cruel in how gently I work the tension, the way a mechanic would coax an engine through a cold start. His hipstwitch involuntarily, and I can feel the way his knot threatens to flare even further, desperate to do the deed of locking us.

He groans outright—not that arrogant, weaponized noise from before, but something deep, almost animal, like I’ve wired a shortcut to the base of his fucking soul. The look on his face is pure surrender, head thrown back, throat exposed, jaw tight as he rides the edge of pain and pleasure.

Every time I milk his knot I remember how much we are more alike than we’d ever admit: hungry, relentless, programmed to outlast and out-grind even our own bodies’ limits. I keep stroking, milking him for every last drop, because I want this remembered in every cell of his body for weeks to come.

My grip softens, thumb tracing the outline of his knot, and I feel the quiver go through his whole body, a ripple of release that finally, finally lets him breathe again.

We stay like that, a two-headed monster, fused at the hips, for long, ragged moments. His breath rakes in my ear, words forming and dissolving before they make it to reality. He shifts his movement first, just enough to look me in the eye, hair plastered to his forehead, pupils blown, expression soft and raw. For once, he doesn’t smirk. Just brushes his thumb over my bruised lips, like he’s trying to remember what brought us here.

I don’t say anything. I don’t need to.

We’re both here, in the ruins, refusing to move even as the aftershocks rattle through us.

Eventually, maybe, we’ll fight again. Scream, break things, pretend this isn’t the only thing that matters. But right now? We hold on. Just a little longer.

Neither willing to be the one to unclench first.

CHAPTER 6

Virtual Velocity

~AURORA~

Sunrise bleeds through the gaps in the blackout curtains like liquid gold, thin rays of light that find their way into the bedroom with determined persistence. One particular beam lands directly across my face, warm against my closed eyelids in a way that would be annoying if I weren't so thoroughly, deliciously sated.

I'm still wrapped in Cale's arms.