My whole body's strung tight, tension curling deep with every grind of his hips, every touch of his fingers.
But it doesn't change what I feel.
Even breathless and desperate for more, I can't give him what he's asking for.
"I can't," I whisper, the words pulled out of me over the top of soft moans. "I won't."
He doesn't stop, but he shifts. Slows. Half-control, half-warning.
"You think I don't understand?" His voice drops low. "You think I don't know what it's like to carry that weight? To want to protect what's yours, even if it means bleeding for it?"
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to focus—on his words, not the ache building in my core, and the desperate need to grind against him. "Then you should understand why I have to go."
"What I understand," he says, punctuating each word with a deep, deliberate thrust, "is that you're my mate. My priority. My fucking heart walking around outside my chest."
God. Every word he speaks cuts sharper than his teeth ever could.
