The Lycans Voted Her Queen novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Come In

In her bed she sets the pace and takes all of the huge king, and when he asks to stay she says the words that let him through the door.

I slept until dusk, and I woke already listening for the porch.

The boards creaked at six on the dot.

I opened the door in my socks before he could knock.

He had cleaned up.

His sandy hair was damp, the beard was combed, and the green shirt was fresh and buttoned to the throat.

In one hand he carried a jar of honey.

The lid was wrapped in a bit of red cloth, and the jar fit in his palm with room to spare.

"Miss Hartigan," he said.

"Moira."

His eyes flickered.

"Moira. Will you take the Queen's Chair?"

"No."

"Thank you for the answer."

"You don't have to say that every time."

"Hester says I do. She says it's the manners of the thing."

"Hester says a lot."

"She does." His mouth moved under the beard.

"The honey is from the hives at Ridge Hold. It's the best in the Range."

I took the honey.

I stood there with it in my hands, and the evening wind came off the ridge and lifted the hair at his collar.

He stood on the top step and did not move one inch toward the doorway.

He would have stood there until I closed the door.

I knew that.

I had not been able to stop knowing it since the truck.

"Garrick."

"Yes."

"Come in."

He took a breath that moved his whole chest.

"I'm not coming in to be your answer," he said slowly.

"The law is the law. This is a different thing."

"I know."

"If you want me to go after, I'll go. If you want to say no again tomorrow, I'll hear it. I'm not buying anything."

"I know that too," I said. "Shut the door, you're letting the heat out."

He ducked under the lintel and came in, and my kitchen shrank around him.

He turned and shut the door with enormous care.

I put the honey down.

I took off my vest and hung it on its hook, and I felt him watching every motion.

"I've thought about it all day," he said. "I haven't thought about much else for nine years."

I turned.

"Nine years?"

"I've watched you cross the yard for nine years, Moira."

He took a breath.

"I stood outside the birthing house and listened to you tell women they were doing well."

He said it as if it were a plain fact.

My throat went tight.

"You never said anything."

"I'm not good at it. I get the words wrong."

"You're doing fine."

I crossed the kitchen and put my hands flat on his chest.

His heart was slamming under my palms.

I could feel it through the wool, hard and fast.

"My bedroom is through there," I said. "I'd like you to be in it."

"Now?"

"Now."

He picked me up.

He did it with one arm under my knees and one across my back, and he did it so easily that my stomach swooped.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and laughed into his shoulder.

"Put me down on the bed, you giant."

He set me on the quilt.

Then he stood over me, breathing hard, and did nothing at all.

"You're allowed to touch," I said.

"I know. I'm trying to remember how."

"Take your shirt off."

He undid the buttons one by one, with big careful fingers, and shrugged it off his shoulders.

I stopped breathing.

He was built to hold up a roof.

His chest was broad and covered in sandy hair, his stomach hard, his arms thick with muscle and crossed with old pale scars.

A long one ran from his ribs across his hip, and another curved over his left shoulder.

I sat up and touched the shoulder one.

"What happened here?"

"I was nineteen and stupid."

"And here?"

"Twenty and stupid."

I laughed, and he smiled, and the smile changed his whole face.

I pulled my own flannel over my head, and then my undershirt, and my bra, and let them drop.

His gaze fell on me and his whole body locked.

"Moira," he said, in a voice like gravel.

"Do you like it?"

"I'm not able to say how much."

"Try."

He swallowed.

"I've dreamed about your breasts," he said. "I'm sorry. I should say something polite."

"Don't you dare."

I took his hand and put it on my breast.

His palm covered the whole of it, rough and burning, and his thumb passed across my nipple.

I arched into it with a moan.

"Oh," he said. "That's it. That's the sound."

"Take your boots off and get on the bed."

He did.

It didn't take long, stripping fast for a man his size.

Then he lay on his back with his head on my pillow, and his shoulders took up the whole mattress.

I knelt across his thighs and unbuckled his belt again, slower this time.

He lifted his hips and I peeled the jeans down.

He was naked under them.

His cock lay thick and flushed against his stomach, bigger than any I had ever seen.

It was already glistening at the tip.

I put my hand around it and felt it pulse.

"Moira, if you do that I won't last."

"Then I'll do something else."

I stood, pushed off my jeans, and stripped my underwear down my legs.

He watched me with his lips parted.

"Hands at your sides," I said.

"Yes."

"Don't move unless I tell you."

"Yes, ma'am."

I climbed back over him and settled on his thighs.

I was very wet.

I took him in both hands and rubbed the head of him through my folds, slowly, from my clit to my entrance and back.

He groaned and shut his eyes.

"Look at me."

He opened them.

I held the thick head against my opening and sank down an inch.

The stretch was sharp and wonderful.

"Oh, God," I said.

"Moira." His voice shook. "Moira, you're so tight."

"I know. Be quiet. I'm doing it."

I took another inch.

His hands fisted in the quilt on either side of him, and the muscles in his forearms stood out.

He was shaking with the effort of holding still.

I rose and sank again, working him in a little deeper each time.

My thighs burned.

Every nerve I had lit up around the slow thick push of him, and I heard myself making low, wrecked sounds I couldn't stop.

"That's it," he whispered. "That's it. Take what you want."

"I'm going to take all of it."

"All of it. It's yours."

I put my hands on his chest and lowered myself the last few inches.

I sat flush on his hips, and he was buried in me to the root.

We both cried out.

I felt him throbbing deep inside me, deeper than any man had ever been.

It pressed right at the edge of too much, and then past it into something perfect.

I held still and shook.

"Garrick."

"I'm here."

"You're in me so far."

"I know. I know. God, you feel like heaven."

I began to move.

I rode him slow at first, rolling my hips and feeling every ridge of him drag inside me.

His breath came in ragged pulls.

His eyes never left my face.

I picked up speed, my hands braced on his chest, my breasts shaking, and the bed knocked against the wall.

"Can I touch you?" he said, wrecked.

"Yes. Touch me. Touch my breasts."

His huge hands came up and cupped them, and his thumbs stroked, and he arched his hips off the bed to meet me.

I came apart.

It started deep and rolled outward, clenching on him in great pulses, and I heard myself shout his name into the dark.

He swore and held my hips and fucked up into me through all of it, and I felt him lose control by inches.

"Moira. Moira, I'm going to."

"Do it. In me. Come in me."

He shouted, and I felt him pour into me, hot and endless, his whole body bowing off the mattress.

I collapsed on his chest.

His arms came around me and held me tight enough to feel, not tight enough to hurt.

We lay there with our hearts pounding against each other.

After a long time his chest shook.

I lifted my head.

He was laughing, quietly and helplessly.

"What?"

"I thought I'd die before I got to touch you," he said, "and instead I nearly died of it."

I kissed him, lazily, and put my cheek on his heart.

"Stay the night," I said.

"The law says I can't."

"The law says you can't come in unless I say so. I said so."

"Hester will have words."

"Hester can have what she likes."

He pulled the quilt over us both.

In the dark, with his hand moving up and down my spine, he murmured into my hair, "Will you take the Queen's Chair?"

"No."

"Thank you for the answer."

I felt him smile against my head, and then I felt him sleep, all at once.

I woke at first light to three sharp knocks on the front door.

I knew that stick.

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