The Kiss

I remember the door opening. I remember lights. A bed. Then his mouth was on mine and nothing else mattered.

He kissed like he was trying to crawl inside me.

There was no softness. No asking. His tongue pushed past my lips and he swallowed my moan like he owned it. His hands were everywhere—in my hair, on my throat, ripping at my dress like the fabric personally offended him.

"Look at you," he snarled against my mouth. "Soaking through your panties just from a fucking kiss. I can smell you. You're dripping for me and you don't even know my name."

He was right. I didn't. I didn't care either.

My back hit the mattress. He was on top of me before I could blink, heavy and hard and perfect. His hips pressed between my thighs and I felt him through his pants—thick, long, the kind of size that should have scared me.

It didn't.

It made me whine. Made me lift my hips, chasing the pressure, grinding against him like a bitch in heat.

Because that's what I was. The alcohol had stripped away every wall I'd ever built. No control. No shame. Just Omega need and the Alpha who'd answered the call.

"Please," I gasped. I didn't know what I was asking for. Everything. Anything. "Please, please, please—"

He ripped my panties off. Didn't even bother pulling them down. Just tore the lace like it was tissue paper and tossed it somewhere behind him.

"Spread your legs."

I did.

He looked down at me. His eyes were nearly black, pupils blown wide. He was breathing hard, chest heaving, and I could see him fighting for control. Losing it.

"Fuck," he said softly. "You're perfect. Your cunt is perfect. Pink and wet and fucking made for me."

Two fingers pushed inside me without warning.

I screamed.

Not from pain. From the suddenness of it. The fullness. My body clenched around him and he groaned, dropping his forehead to mine.

"So tight," he gritted out. "Jesus Christ, you're so fucking tight. And you're not even scared. You should be scared. I'm a stranger. You're drunk. You don't know me."

"Don't care," I sobbed, grinding down on his fingers. "Don't care, don't care, just want—need—"

"Need what?" He curled his fingers and hit something inside me that made my vision white out. "Tell me. Use your words."

"You," I cried. "Need you inside me. Need your knot. Please, Alpha, please—"

That word did something to him.

He pulled his fingers out and I whimpered at the loss. But then I heard his belt. His zipper. The rustle of fabric. And then something hot and thick was pressing against my entrance and I couldn't breathe.

"This is going to hurt," he warned. "You're tight. I'm big. And I'm not going to be gentle."

I nodded. Or tried to. I was crying already, tears sliding down my temples into my hair.

"I don't want gentle," I whispered.

He pushed inside me in one motion.

I felt everything.

The stretch. The burn. The way my body tried to push him out and then changed its mind and pulled him deeper. He was huge—thicker than anything I'd ever taken, longer too. I felt him in my throat. In my ribs. In places I didn't know existed.

But I also felt something else.

Rightness.

Like my whole life had been leading to this moment. Like every breath, every heartbeat, every lonely night had been practice for the way he felt splitting me open on his cock.

"Look at that," he growled, bottoming out. His hips pressed flush against mine. He wasn't moving. Just holding himself there, letting me feel every inch. "Taking all of me. And crying about it. That desperate, sweetheart?"

"Yes," I sobbed. "Yes, I'm desperate, I'm so desperate, please move, please—"

He pulled out slow. Torture slow. Then slammed back in.

I saw stars.

He fucked me exactly like he promised. Not gentle. Rough and deep and punishing. Each thrust drove me up the mattress. Each thrust made me scream. He put his hand over my mouth and I bit his palm and he laughed—actually laughed—and fucked me harder.

"That's it," he panted. "Bite me. Fight me. I don't care. You're mine now. You opened your legs for me and I'm not leaving until you're marked."

Marked.

The word should have terrified me. In the real world—sober world—it would have. Marking was permanent. Marking meant belonging. Marking meant no one else would ever touch you because everyone would know whose you were.

But I wasn't in the real world. I was in his world. And his world smelled like cedar and tasted like blood from where I'd bitten my own lip, and everything felt so good I couldn't think.

"Do it," I heard myself say. "Mark me. Claim me. I want everyone to know."

He stopped moving.

For a second I thought I'd said something wrong. But then I saw his face. His expression. The way he was looking at me like I'd just handed him the world on a silver platter.

"Say it again," he demanded.

"Mark me."

He lowered his head. His mouth found the place where my neck met my shoulder. The gland there was swollen, sensitive, and pumping out so much scent I could barely stand it.

He bit down.