Come in

Come in
“Can I…?”
I turned, water streaming down my face. She was standing just inside the door, eyes wide, the fear of earlier replaced by something quieter: the need to know I was really here, really alive.

For a heartbeat, neither of us spoke. Then I nodded.
“Yeah,” I said roughly. “You can.”

She stepped closer until the mist touched her. She didn’t reach for me; she just let her fingers brush the back of my hand where it rested against the tile. That simple touch—warm against all the cold that had built inside me—did more than the scalding water ever could.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she whispered.

“You didn’t,” I said. “Not tonight.”

Her head dipped, a single tear vanishing into the water on the floor. I turned off the tap and drew a towel around both of us, closing the space between.

“Come on,” I murmured. “Let’s just… breathe for a minute.”

“No,’ She stepped back—slow, deliberate, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
The steam wrapped around her like a veil—hair curling at the ends, shirt clinging to her skin, eyes dark with want and wonder.

I didn’t move.
Just watched as she lifted the hem of her shirt—slow, shy, bold—and pulled it over her head.
Bra—black lace, simple, perfect.
Then jeans—unbuttoned, sliding down, kicked aside.
Panties—matching, soaked from nerves or steam or me.

She stood there—naked, unashamed, mine—and the air shifted.
Thicker.
Heavier.
Ours.

I reached for her—one hand, water-slick, pulling her under the spray.
She gasped—hot water, hot skin, hot need.
I pressed her to the tile—cool, smooth, unforgiving—and kissed her like I’d been starving for it.
Deep, slow, claiming.
Tongue, teeth, breath.

Her hands were everywhere—my shoulders, my back, my scars, my ass—pulling, needing, claiming back.
I growled into her mouth, lifted her—legs around my waist, back to the wall.
Water poured over us—cascading, cleansing, binding.

“Dante—”
Her voice broke—plea, prayer, love.

I thrust—slow, deep, home.
She cried out—muffled against my shoulder, teeth grazing skin.
I moved—steady, relentless, worshipping.
Hand in her hair, other under her thigh, holding, claiming.

“Look at me,” I growled.

She did—eyes blown, lips swollen, beautiful.

“I’m here,” I said.
“I’m yours.”

We came together—shattering, silent, perfect.
Water washed us clean.
Steam held us close.
Love—quiet, fierce, real—bound us.

After, I wrapped her in a towel—thick, warm, mine.
Carried her to the bed—king, white, ours.
Laid her down—gentle, reverent.
Curled behind her—big spoon, wolf warm.

“Sleep,” I murmured, lips at her neck.
“I’ve got you.”

She sighed—content, safe.

“Don’t vanish,” she whispered.

“Never again.”

The moon watched through the window.
The night finally quiet. And for the first time in years, I slept—dreaming of her.

The sheets are still warm from our bodies when I wake—sunrise bleeding gold through the half-open shutters, painting Luciana in soft, molten light.
She’s curled against me—back to my chest, hair a dark spill across my arm, breath slow and steady. The towel from last night is long gone; skin on skin, heartbeats synced, mine.

I nuzzle her neck—just a brush of lips—testing.
She stirs, murmurs something sleepy and sweet, then rolls to face me. Eyes—hazel shot with green, still heavy with dreams—blink open.

“Morning,” she whispers, voice husky.

“Morning,” I echo, thumb tracing her lower lip.
“Sleep okay?”

She smiles—slow, wicked.

“Eventually.”

I laugh—low, rumbling.

“My fault?”

“Entirely,” she says, fingers sliding down my chest, nails grazing. “But I’m not complaining.”

Her hand keeps going—lower, teasing, dangerous.
I catch her wrist—gentle, firm.

“Careful,” I warn.
“You’ll start something.”

She arches a brow—playful, challenging.

“Maybe I want to.”

The game begins with a kiss—soft, testing, who can hold out longer.
I win—barely—pulling back just as she whimpers.

“Point one,” I murmur against her lips.

She growls—adorable, feral—and flips me onto my back.
Straddles me—knees on either side, hair cascading, breasts swaying.

“My turn.”

Her mouth starts at my jaw—nips, licks, sucks.
Down my throat—pulse point, collarbone, nipple.
She bites—light, perfect—and I hiss, hips bucking.

“Fuck—”

“Language,” she teases, tongue flicking.
“Point one for me.”

I flip her—fast, smooth—pinning her beneath me.

“Not fair,” I growl.
“You know what that does.”

She laughs—breathless, bright.

“Exactly.”

Round two: hands only.
I start slow—fingertips tracing her ribs, belly, inner thighs.
Circles, feathers, pressure.
She writhes—arching, begging without words.

“Dante—please—”

I slide one finger inside—slow, curling, finding.
She gasps, clamps around me.

“Two,” I whisper.

But she’s fast—hand wrapping around my cock, stroking with perfect pressure.
Thumb over the tip, twist, squeeze.
I groan—deep, helpless.

“Two-one,” she sing-songs, smirking.

Round three: mouths.
She goes first—tongue flat, slow licks, swirling.
Takes me deep—throat, heat, wet.
I thread fingers in her hair—not guiding, just holding.

“Luci—fuck—”

She pulls off with a pop—grinning.

“Three-one.”

I flip her again—on her back, legs over my shoulders.
Tongue—flat, firm, relentless.
Circles, flicks, suction.
She screams—muffled into the pillow, hips bucking.

“Dante—oh god—”

I add fingers—two, curling, thrusting.
She comes—hard, shaking, soaked.
I lap her through it—gentle, worshipping.

“Three-two,” I murmur, kissing her thigh.

Final round: all in.
We’re laughing, sweaty, breathless.
I enter her—slow, deep, eye contact.

“No more points,” I say.
“Just us.”

She nods—tears in her eyes, not sad.

“Just us.”

We move together—slow, perfect, synced.
Hands linked, foreheads touching, hearts racing.
Bond—not pack, not rank, just love—sings.

We come together—quiet, shattering, whole.
I hold her—still inside, still home.

“Tie,” she whispers, smiling.

“Always,” I say.

We collapse—tangled, laughing, spent.
Sun high now, sheets ruined, air thick with us.
She traces a scar on my chest.

“Next time,” she says, sleepy, sated,
“I win.”

I kiss her forehead.

“Looking forward to it.”

The world can wait.
For now,
We play.