Hiding The Alpha King's Twins

Chapter 37: Chapter 37

Fleur let out a startled gasp when Christian caught her wrist and pulled her back before she could step out into the storm.

Despite the fever burning through his body, the Alpha King’s reflexes remained frighteningly quick.

One moment she was reaching for the door. The next, she found herself seated securely on his lap.

"Where do you think you’re going?" Christian muttered, his voice rough from exhaustion.

His silver eyes were half-lidded with fever, yet they remained fixed entirely on her.

Even weakened, his wolf missed nothing.

Fleur’s heart stumbled beneath that intense gaze. The concern in his expression caught her off guard.

"Are you trying to freeze yourself to death?" he demanded. "You were about to walk into a blizzard dressed like that."

The cold suddenly hit her like a slap — Fleur had forgotten, in her frantic desperation, that she’d stepped out in nothing but a thin slip. No coat. No boots. The snow bit at her bare feet as she stood there, shivering, realizing her mistake a beat too late. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

His gaze caught her first.

Those silver eyes, wolf-sharp and gleaming, locked onto hers with a predator’s patience. She sucked in a breath so sharp it burned. God. How could he still do this to her? How could one look from Christian make her slick and aching between her thighs, when she’d spent six years telling herself she was over him?

She knew she didn’t love him anymore, but her body had never gotten the memo.

Trapped in the close heat of the car, perched on his lap with his arms banded around her waist like iron, she felt the rumble of a growl building in his chest before she heard it.

The sound vibrated through her, primal and low, sinking into her bones. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, following the line of her throat where her pulse fluttered rabbit-fast.

She was wet. Drenched. And he hadn’t even touched her yet.

"The car won’t start, Mr. Wayne." Her voice came out wrong — breathy, broken, a half-moan wrapped around his name like she couldn’t help herself. "I was going to check what’s wrong."

His hand slid up her bare thigh, palm rough and warm against skin that pebbled with goosebumps. Her breath stuttered. His fingers found the damp cotton of her panties and stroked — once, slow, deliberate — right over the ache that had been building since the moment he’d opened the door.

Her head fell back. Her hips rolled into his hand of their own accord. More wetness flooded his fingers, and she heard his sharp inhale, smelled the way his scent deepened — cedar and smoke and something darkly male.

"Fuck, baby." His voice had dropped, gone husky and rough, edged with the animal she knew lived inside him. "How long have you been this wet for me?"

Embarrassment flickered through the haze. She was soaked. Dripping. He had to feel it, the way her body was betraying her, weeping for him.

Six years. Six years without another man touching her — not that she’d wanted one. Her life had been the twins, her work, the hollow routine of sleeping alone.

But this man was dangerous. Christian was still a wolf pretending to be human, and her body remembered his bite, his mark, the way he’d claimed her so thoroughly that no other could ever take root.

"This—" She swallowed, throat dry as ash. "This is wrong, Mr. Wayne."

His mouth cut off her protest.

Not gentle. Not asking. His lips claimed hers with a hunger that bordered on feral — teeth and tongue and the possessive growl that vibrated from his chest into hers. He nipped her lower lip, dragged it between his teeth, soothed the sting with a lick that made her gasp.

Her lips parted, and he was inside, tasting her, taking her, his tongue sweeping against hers in long, languid strokes that stole every thought she’d ever had.

She didn’t realize when her whimpers became moans. Didn’t notice when her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, wanting more. The wolf in him answered — curling around her scent, her submission, her surrender.

"I want you, baby." His voice was wrecked. He barely had the words out before he was kissing her again, harder, deeper, pouring six years of absence into every slide of his tongue.

His fingers found the hem of her panties. A sharp yank tore the fabric, and the cold air hit her bare skin before his hand replaced it, fingertips finding her clit — swollen, slick, desperate. He circled it with a pressure that made her whole body seize. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

"Oh— fuck—"

His lips abandoned hers to drag down her jaw. Sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. Nips and bites that would bruise. His tongue laved the column of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, before he found the spot — that fluttering nerve just below her ear — and sucked.

Hard.

Her vision went white.

The orgasm hit her like a freight train, tearing through her without warning. Her back arched, her nails dug into his shoulders, and she screamed — a raw, broken sound that was probably his name.

"Christian!" Wave after wave crashed through her, wringing her out, leaving her trembling and breathless in his arms.

He watched her come apart. His eyes had gone fully wolf-dark, pupils blown wide, fangs threatening to lengthen. "That was so fucking hot," he growled, the sound scraping against her oversensitive skin.

She was still floating when his finger slid inside her — slow, probing, feeling the aftershocks clench around him. Her mind was hazy, drunk on the scent of him, the heat of him, the way his chest rumbled against hers with a possessive purr.

Before her consciousness could catch up, she was reaching for him. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling his mouth back to hers, kissing him like she needed his breath to live. He groaned into her, his grip tightening on her waist, adjusting her on his lap until she felt it — the thick, heavy press of him at her entrance.

The contact of their bodies, skin to skin, flesh to aching flesh, sent a shudder through her. She was seconds away from coming again, and they hadn’t even done anything yet.

She whimpered, writhed, rolled her hips in silent plea. But Christian didn’t rush. His hand found her breast, thumb rasping over her nipple until it peaked, hard and sensitive, against his palm.

He knew her body. He’d mapped every inch of it six years ago, and the wolf never forgot.

"Please," she heard herself beg.

His hips jerked. He buried himself inside her with one hard, brutal thrust.

"Fuck—" His voice broke. "Baby, you’re still so tight."

Fleur gasped, the air punched from her lungs. He was big. She’d forgotten — the sheer size of him, the way he stretched her, filled her, pressed against places that hadn’t been touched in years.

Tears pricked at her eyes. It was too much. And not enough. Pain and pleasure tangled into something that made her grip his shoulders and hold on.

He gave her a moment. One breath. Then he began to move.

His hands on her hips guided her, bouncing her on his length in time with his thrusts. He couldn’t look away from her face — flushed, lips parted, gasping his name with every drive of his cock into her tight, wet heat. Her arms wrapped around him, her soft body pressed to his hard form, and the wolf inside him howled.

Mine. Still mine. Always mine.

Christian buried his face in her throat and let his instincts take over.