Page 75 of The Cuddle Clause

I didn’t even realize I was begging until the words tumbled out—his name, please, more—over and over. His mouth caught mine again, swallowing every sound as he slid his hand down between us to circle my clit.

“Come for me, baby,” he urged, his forehead pressed to mine. “I want to feel you fall apart on me.”

My whole body tightened and trembled. Pleasure shot through me so fast it left me gasping. I shattered, crying out as my walls clenched around him, dragging a curse from his lips.

He didn’t let up, driving into me through my orgasm until he suddenly pulled out and flipped me onto my hands and knees. I barely had time to register before he thrust into me again, deeper and harder, hitting a spot that had me screaming into the pillow.

“Fuck, yes,” I moaned, pushing back into him. “Right there?—”

“Greedy girl,” he growled, gripping my hips. I never wanted him to let go. “Gonna make me lose it.”

Our bodies slapped together, the sound filthy and addictive. He reached around and pressed his thumb against my clit, and the sensation made me come a second time.

That undid him. He thrust deep, groaning my name like a prayer, and came hard, pulsing inside me as his grip tightened, holding me flush against him.

We collapsed sideways into the tangle of sheets, his arm locked around me like he was afraid I’d disappear.

“I wasn’t going to touch you like that when I came in here,” he said hoarsely, lips brushing my hair. “I swear I wasn’t.”

“I wanted you to,” I whispered, still dazed, still pulsing around the fading echo of him.

His laugh was low and warm against my skin. “Good.”

We lay there, skin damp, the space heater humming somewhere in the corner. But all the heat I needed was already wrapped around me.

I started to relax, muscles unclenching, mind quieting. The rhythm of Roman’s breathing had synced with mine, slow and steady, like maybe our bodies had finally decided we were allowed to rest.

His arm was draped over my waist, heavy in the best way, anchoring me to him. His chest pressed against my back, every rise and fall a whispered reassurance that I wasn’t alone. That I was wanted.

I let out a soft sigh, my fingers curling around the blanket.

Then the thunder cracked, sharp and sudden like a whip cracking through the sky, and my whole body jolted. My breath caught in my throat. Every muscle seized tight again. My eyes snapped open, staring into the dark as panic crawled up my spine.

It wasn’t rational. It never had been. But storms always hit me the same way. The noise. The pressure. That feeling of something coming you couldn’t stop.

Roman’s arms tightened instantly, like he felt the change before I could speak. His hand moved up my side, slow and steady, not to restrain but to remind me that I wasn’t alone. His chest pressed closer to my back. I felt the soft scrape of his stubble against the back of my neck as he dipped his head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice deep and quiet, like it belonged to the night itself. “You’re safe.”

My throat burned. I didn’t answer.

I turned into him, burying my face in his chest, and let the scent of him—pine, warmth, that faint smoky note that clung to his skin—wrap around me until the noise outside didn’t seem quite as loud.

His hand slid up to my shoulder, holding me close without pressing too hard. Just enough to say:You’re safe.

And for a few seconds, I almost believed it. But somewhere underneath the comfort, a flicker of doubt stirred.

He felt soreallike this. So close and warm and…here. I wanted to let myself fall into that. To believe it meant something. To believe that maybe I wasn’t crazy to think this connection was real.

But the voice in the back of my mind—the one I’d been carrying around since childhood—wasn’t done with me yet.

What are you doing, Maggie? Why are you letting yourself think he sees you?

He’s Roman Velasquez. A brooding, dramatic, supernatural force of chaos and charm who gets into fights with rival shifters and makes girls blush with a single raised brow. He lives in a world of ancient rivalries and power plays and pack politics.

And you? You’re normal. Boring. The girl who hides under blankets during thunderstorms, who still flinches when doors slam, who second-guesses everything she says three times before letting it out.

What could someone like him possibly want with someone like you?