Page 243 of Immune

That thought burns through me but I keep my hands still.

“I won’t force it,” I swear. “And if your body locks around mine, I’ll stay with you. I won’t turn it into some claim, or turn it into ownership. I’ll stay because you chose me before your instincts got too loud.”

Dakota grows quiet. Then, softer, she says, “No bite.”

“No bite,” I assure her.

“And if I lock?”

“Then I stay.”

“If you knot?”

“I stay.”

Her eyes flicker then. Trust, just as sharp as shattered glass.

“Good,” she whispers. “Because if you panic while attached to me, I’m going to haunt you.”

“I’d deserve it,” I tell her seriously.

“Mhm,” she mutters, right before her mouth crashes into mine again and my entire world narrows into nothing but her. Dakota. Her hot mouth, her scent that starts to cling to my skin, and the way she feels against me.

Dakota’s hands pull at my belt with more impatience than coordination then, and I let her have the struggle for all of three seconds before covering her fingers with mine.

She glares at me. “I can do it.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you trying to help?” she presses.

“Because you’re about to murder my belt,” I point out.

Her mouth twitches. “It knows exactly what it did.”

I kiss the corner of her mouth before I undo it myself, and her breath changes when my zipper lowers. Not with fear, and not with hesitation, but with awareness. The room grows very quiet around that sound just before her fingers slide under the waistband of my pants with a bold touch until they reach bare skin. Then they pause, just for a second. A tiny hesitation tucked between all the sharpness.

I catch her wrist, but I don’t stop her. I’m just holding the moment still enough for her to decide exactly what this moment is.

Dakota’s eyes raise to mine.

“I want to,” she says, already defensive before I even ask.

“I believe you,” I promise.

“Good.”

Then her hand moves lower and, this time, I let it.

The first touch of her fingers around me punches the air clean out of my lungs, and Dakota notices. Of course she does. Her eyes light up with something almost victorious, and for one second, grief isn’t the loudest thing in the room with us.

Want is.

Desire is.

Arousal is.

She strokes me once, slow and curious, watching my jaw tighten as if she’s learning a new language she has every intention of becoming fluent in just out of spite.