Chapter 40 Reckless heart
Maureen Laurent
The late afternoon light poured through the open glass doors of the studio, thick and golden, turning every speck of dust into slow-dancing sparks. I was perched on a low velvet stool in the center of the room, completely naked, skin bathed in that warm glow. My hair spilled loose over one shoulder, white-gold strands catching fire in the sun. Knees drawn up slightly, arms resting lightly around them, chin tilted just enough to watch him.
Vuk stood at the easel ten feet away, shirtless, black linen pants riding low on his hips. A streak of cerulean paint marked one sharp cheekbone; another smudge of crimson stained the inside of his forearm where he’d wiped a brush absentmindedly. His hair was tied back loosely, a few dark strands escaping to frame his face. Golden eyes flicked between the canvas and me—intense, focused, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the devil and everything to do with the male who couldn’t look away from his mate.
He’d started this two days ago. “I want to paint you,” he’d said, voice rough, like the idea alone scraped his throat raw. “Every curve. Every shadow. Every inch the moon kissed first.”
I’d laughed at first—until I saw the canvas. Until I realized he was serious. Deadly serious.
Now, on day three, he set the brush down with deliberate care and stepped back. His chest rose and fell once, deep, like he’d been holding his breath for hours.
“It’s done,” he said quietly.
I unfolded myself from the stool, bare feet silent on the cool stone floor as I crossed to him. The air felt charged, thick with the scent of paint and him—pine smoke, warm skin, raw want.
I stopped beside him and looked.
My breath caught.
It wasn’t just a portrait. It was… me. The way he saw me. Moonlight on my skin, silver veins faint under the surface, eyes glowing soft and fierce at once. The crescent scar at my throat rendered in delicate silver leaf that caught the light. My body curved in a way that felt powerful, not fragile—hips flared, breasts full, thighs strong from running with my wolf again. There was a faint glow around the bite mark on my shoulder, like he’d mixed actual gold into the paint.
It was beautiful. Reverent. Intimate in a way that made heat crawl up my neck.
“Vuk…” I whispered, voice cracking. “This is… I don’t even have words.”
He didn’t look at the canvas anymore. He looked at me—naked, flushed, standing close enough that his heat brushed my skin.
“I do,” he said, low and rough. “You are the only thing I’ve ever created instead of destroyed.”
My eyes burned. I turned to him fully, forgetting I was bare, forgetting everything except the raw truth in his voice.
“You really see me like that?” I asked, small and wondering. “Not broken? Not… tainted by everything that happened before?”
His hand rose slowly, paint-smudged fingers cupping my jaw, thumb stroking my cheekbone. “You were never broken, little moon. You were bent—by cruel hands, by a world that didn’t deserve you—and you still grew toward the light. That’s not damage. That’s strength. And every mark on you—” His gaze dropped to the faint silver lash scars across my ribs, the ones that had finally faded to soft lines. “—is proof you survived. I paint them because they’re part of the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known.”
Tears spilled over before I could stop them. I didn’t care.
I threw my arms around his neck, pressing my naked body flush against him, face buried in his throat. His arms came around me instantly—tight, protective, one hand splayed low on my bare back, the other cradling my head.
“Thank you,” I whispered against his skin, voice thick. “For seeing me. For keeping me. For… everything.”
He held me like that for a long moment, breathing me in, heart thundering against my chest.
Then his palm slid lower—slow, deliberate—until it cupped my ass. He squeezed once, firm and possessive, before delivering a sharp, playful slap that echoed in the quiet studio and made me yelp, then laugh into his shoulder.
“Careful, little moon,” he growled against my ear, voice dropping to that dangerous timbre that always made my knees weak. “You’re naked, crying, and wrapped around me. My control is only so strong.”
I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, still smiling through the tears. “Maybe I don’t want your control right now.”
His pupils blew wide, gold bleeding into molten amber.
He didn’t rush. Instead, his hands framed my face, thumbs wiping away the tear tracks with exquisite tenderness before his mouth descended—slow, claiming, but not devouring. Not yet. His lips brushed mine once, twice, a feather-light tease that had me chasing him when he pulled back just out of reach.
“Patience,” he murmured, voice a dark rumble that vibrated through my chest. “I’ve spent days memorizing every inch of you with my eyes. Now I want to do it with my hands… my mouth.”
A shiver raced down my spine. I nodded, breathless.
He started at my throat, lips grazing the crescent scar, tongue tracing it in lazy circles until I arched into him. His fangs extended just enough to scrape—never breaking skin, just promising the sting that made my core clench with need. One hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back to expose more of my neck while the other skimmed down my side, thumb brushing the underside of my breast but never quite touching where I ached.
“Vuk…” I whimpered, trying to press closer.
He chuckled, low and wicked. “Not yet.”
He walked me backward until my thighs hit the edge of the paint-splattered chaise. Instead of laying me down, he sat first, pulling me to straddle his lap. His pants were still on—rough linen against my slick, sensitive folds as I settled over the hard ridge of his cock. He groaned at the contact, hips flexing once, but held me still when I tried to grind.
“Feel that?” he rasped, guiding my hips in a slow, torturous roll. “That’s what looking at you for three days has done to me. Hard. Aching. Dripping for you.”
I could feel the wet spot forming on his pants from his pre-cum, mingling with my own arousal. The friction was maddening—enough to tease, not enough to satisfy.
His mouth found my breast finally, tongue swirling around one nipple in tight, wet circles before sucking it deep. The pull shot straight to my clit, making me gasp and rock harder against him. He switched to the other breast, teeth grazing, fangs pricking just enough to make me cry out.
Paint-smudged fingers trailed down my belly, dipping into my navel, then lower—skimming the top of my mound but bypassing my clit entirely. He traced the crease where thigh met hip, over and over, until I was trembling, thighs shaking.
“Please,” I begged, voice breaking.
“Please what, little moon?” He nipped my collarbone. “Tell me.”
“Touch me. Fuck me. Anything.”
His growl was pure satisfaction. Finally—finally—two thick fingers slid through my soaked folds, parting them, circling my entrance without pushing in. He coated himself in my wetness, then brought those fingers to my lips.
“Taste how much you want me.”
I sucked them eagerly, tongue swirling, tasting myself—salty, musky, desperate.
“Good girl,” he praised, eyes blazing.
Only then did he touch my clit—light, feather-soft strokes that had me bucking wildly. He pinned my hips with one arm, controlling the pace, building me higher and higher but pulling back every time I got close.
I was sobbing with need by the time he stood, lifting me effortlessly and laying me on the chaise like something sacred. His pants vanished in a blur, his cock springing free—thick, veined, the knot at the base already swelling, tip glistening with pre-cum.
He knelt between my thighs, spreading them wide. “Look at you,” he groaned. “So wet. So ready. This pretty cunt is weeping for me.”
His tongue dragged up my center in one long, slow lick—from entrance to clit. Then he devoured me. No more teasing. Lips sucking my clit, tongue thrusting inside me, fangs carefully grazing sensitive flesh. Two fingers curled deep, stroking that spot that made stars burst behind my eyes.
I came hard, screaming his name, thighs clamping around his head as waves crashed through me.
He didn’t stop. He licked me through it, gentler now, drawing out every aftershock until I was boneless, pleading.
Only then did he rise over me, cock nudging my entrance.
“Look at me,” he rasped, voice shredded.
I did.
He pushed in—slow, inexorable—stretching me inch by thick inch until I was impossibly full, gasping, nails raking his back. The burn was exquisite, the fullness overwhelming. When he bottomed out, he stilled, forehead pressed to mine, both of us panting.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “You take me so perfectly. Every time. Like you were made for my cock.”
Then he started moving.
Deep, deliberate thrusts that dragged over every sensitive ridge inside me, hitting spots that made my back arch and my breath hitch. He shifted angles, driving deeper, pace building until the chaise creaked and the wet sounds of our bodies filled the room.
His hand slipped between us, thumb circling my clit in tight, slick strokes matching every thrust.
“Come for me again,” he growled against my throat, fangs scraping the bite mark. “Let me feel this perfect cunt milk my cock before I knot you.”
I shattered a second time—harder, walls clenching in brutal pulses, crying out as pleasure ripped through me.
He fucked me through it, relentless, hips snapping until his knot swelled fully—catching on every withdrawal, stretching me deliciously. On one final, deep thrust, it breached with a wet, obscene pop that tore roars from both of us.
His release hit endless—thick, hot ropes flooding me, pulsing in time with my aftershocks as the knot locked us tight.
He rolled us carefully so I was on top, still impaled, his arms crushing me close while paint-smudged fingers traced lazy patterns down my spine.
We stayed like that, knotted and trembling, hearts hammering in sync.
Eventually he pressed a kiss to my damp temple, voice soft and wrecked.
“I’ll never finish another painting,” he murmured. “Not when the real thing feels this fucking good.”
I laughed breathlessly, clenching around his knot just to hear him groan. “Good. Paint me again tomorrow.”
His answering growl was pure possession, hips jerking once inside me.
“Every day, little moon. Every goddamn day.”