Oh, holy hell. Bliss. Sheer. Soaring. Bliss. Hard, strong, rough, smooth. Gentle. So gentle. Commanding and brutal. But careful, terribly careful. As if he were consciously preventing himself from overpowering her whenever he felt himself grow too fierce, too alpha-dominant, too ready to stamp her with his mark of possession. To leave his scent on her, his bite on her neck. But also as if he wanted to savor the moment, make it special and delicate, and free of any power play, free of any regret. He ran his tongue softly over the seam of her lips, tracing their bow, their curve, nipping at the plumpest part of her lower lip, playful, sweet, then harsh, aggressive, his low growl vibrating against her skin. The whole hard and soft, harsh and sweet thing of contrasts and contradictions had her mind spinning, her head about to explode, her emotions scrambled like a carton of broken eggs. He smelled of pine and frost, like the little carved wolf she slept with under her pillow. He tasted sharp and crisp as juniper berries and made her drunker than a bottle of gin.
