Chapter 162 Taking Care Of Jolie
Jolie pov
He catches my hands, but doesn't push them away. Instead, his thumbs stroke over my knuckles in a gentle caress that makes my breath hitch. "Jolie..."
"Ryder." I look up at him through my lashes, channeling every ounce of want I'm feeling into my gaze. "You're always taking care of me. Let me take care of you. Even if it's just... being close."
Something in his expression shifts. The protective alpha wars with the man who's been sleeping beside me every night, holding me close but never taking what we both desperately want. What we both need.
"You're too weak," he says, but his voice has gone rough with desire he's trying to suppress.
"Then you'll have to do all the work." I smile up at him, pulling one hand free to trace the line of his jaw. "I promise I'll just lie here and look pretty."
A laugh rumbles through his chest, and I feel victorious. "You think you're funny."
"I think I'm persuasive." My fingers trail down his neck, feeling his pulse hammer beneath the ink-covered skin. "And I think you want this as much as I do. I can see it, Ryder, your control is slipping."
It is. His pupils are blown wide, black eating into amber. His wolf is close to the surface, and Shadow wants his mate. “If we do this," he says slowly, each word, "we do it my way. You lie back, you relax, and you let me worship every inch of you until you're boneless and sated. No arguments."
Heat pools low in my belly despite the exhaustion weighing down my limbs. "That sounds... terrible," I deadpan.
This time his laugh is fuller. "You're a menace."
"Your menace." I start working on his belt again, and this time he doesn't stop me. The leather slides free with a soft whisper of sound. "Come on, alpha. Show me how you take care of your mate."
His control snaps. One moment I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, the next I'm flat on my back, Ryder's massive frame hovering over me.
He's shed his leather jacket in a smooth motion, the t-shirt beneath stretching across his shoulders as he plants his hands on either side of my head. “You asked for this," he growls, and despite my exhaustion, a thrill runs through me.
"I'm not complaining."
He lowers himself slowly, carefully, until his weight settles over me like a heated blanket. Every inch of him is hard muscle and barely contains power, but he's gentle, so achingly gentle as he brushes my hair back from my face.
"You're sure?" he asks, and beneath the dominant alpha, I see the man who's terrified of hurting me. Of pushing me too far.
"Ryder." I cup his face in both hands, forcing him to meet my eyes. "I'm sure, I need this. I need you. Please."
That's all it takes. His mouth crashes down on mine, and it's nothing like the sweet, careful kisses we've shared before. This is possession, claim, promise. His tongue sweeps into my mouth and I moan, arching up into him despite the protest of my tired muscles. Every nerve ending I have sparks to life, exhaustion burned away by the inferno building between us.
His hands—those huge, scarred hands that have killed without mercy—are impossibly tender as they map the curves of my body. He traces every rib, every dip of my waist, memorizing the feel of me beneath his palms. When he reaches the waistband of my jeans, he pauses. “Still okay?"
"More than okay," I gasp against his mouth. "Keep going."
He does. My jeans disappear, followed by my underwear, and then there's nothing between us but his own clothing. I tug at his shirt, wanting to feel skin against skin, and he helps me, sitting back just long enough to strip it off.
The sight of him steals what little breath I have left.
Every inch of him is carved muscle and dark ink, the tribal patterns flowing across his chest and down his arms telling stories of battles won and losses mourned. The memorial tattoo over his heart—for Aria, the one lost—catches my eye, and something tender blooms in my chest.
"She'd want you to be happy," I whisper, tracing the delicate script of her name.
His hand covers mine, pressing my palm flat against the thundering beat of his heart. "She would have liked you. Fierce despite your size. Stubborn despite everyone telling you you're not enough."
"Are you calling me stubborn?"
"I'm calling you perfect." He lowers himself again, and this time when his mouth finds mine, there's something different in the kiss.
His lips trail from my mouth to my jaw, down the column of my throat. He pauses at my pulse point, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin, and I shiver.
"Mine," he rumbles against my neck. "Say it."
"Yours," I breathe. "Always yours."
He rewards me by moving lower, his mouth closing over my breast. The sensation makes me gasp, my back arching off the bed. He's relentless, teasing and tormenting until I'm writhing beneath him, until my exhaustion is forgotten in the tide of sensation overwhelming my senses.
He yanks his own trousers off, then his boots hit the floor next. His thick cock standing rigid against his stomach, veins prominent, head flushed dark and already leaking. My mouth waters even as fresh exhaustion tugs at me.
"Ryder, please”
“Patience, Little Ash. Let me take my time. Let me show you what it means to be worshipped." And he does.
He slides one hand between us. His thick fingers find my clit right away and start rubbing firm little circles. The pressure is perfect—steady, not too light, not too rough. My hips jerk up without thinking.
“Easy,” he murmurs against my inner thigh. His breath is hot on my wet skin. Then his mouth is on me.
He licks one long, slow stripe from my entrance all the way up to my clit. Flat tongue, firm pressure. I gasp loud enough that it echoes in the small cabin. He does it again—same slow drag, collecting every bit of wetness on his tongue like he’s starving for it. “Fuck, you taste good,” he says, voice rough and low. He doesn’t wait for me to answer.
He seals his lips around my clit and sucks—gentle at first, then harder. The suction pulls a sharp cry out of me. My hands fly to his hair, fingers twisting in the dark strands. He groans against me when I pull, the vibration shooting straight through my core.
Two thick fingers push inside me at the same time. No warning, just steady pressure until both knuckles are buried deep. My walls clamp down hard around them. He curls those fingers upward, pressing right against that swollen spot inside that makes my thighs shake.
He starts a rhythm—sucking my clit in short, pulsing pulls while his fingers fuck in and out. Slow at first, letting me feel every inch sliding against my slick walls. Then faster. The wet sounds are loud—his fingers pumping, my arousal coating his hand, dripping down to the sheets.
I can’t keep still. My hips rock against his face, grinding my clit harder against his tongue. He doesn’t pull away. He just opens his mouth wider, lets me ride his face while he keeps that perfect curl and thrust going inside me.
His free hand grips my thigh, holding me open so he can get deeper. His beard scrapes the sensitive skin around my pussy—rough, tickling, making everything feel sharper. Every time his tongue flicks fast over my clit, my whole body jolts. “Ryder—” My voice cracks. “I’m gonna”