#workinprxgress

She's too goddamn bossy and her fashion sense is atrocious. He's an opportunist and "fucking prissy for such an 'apex predator'." They argue, Lord, do they argue. One step forward, two steps back. He wants her to do as she's told and question him never. She pokes holes in his false logic and threatens to choke him out with his web of lies.

Braeden challenges him on purpose. She won't back down when he gets in her space. She won't break eye contact, even when it's brown staring down electric blue. Even when he growls and snaps and throws venomous barb after barb, she returns fire. Her accuracy is greater. She knows more about him than he does about her. Nobody seems to know very much about her. Except she's that girl.

Well that girl is a goddamn problem.

It's not like he hasn't been looking, searching, nosing around for something, anything. There's a hole in that armor of her's somewhere. There has to be, she's human, isn't she? At first he thought it was the claw marks on her neck, but Braeden makes no effort to hide them. Really, her clothing should be enough of an indicator just how much she doesn't care about her physical appearance. Motorcycle boots are not the ultimate accessory, it doesn't matter what she says.

She has a curious propensity for compassion. But it's unstable. The scent's there, everywhere, she stinks of it and then it isn't. Instances where she should reek of it, she doesn't. Instance where she shouldn't, she does. Being on the wrong side of that could backfire horribly. So his search continues.

Braeden must know. She must sense something. She gives him nothing. No inch, no clue, no hint. She smells suspicious and amused and it annoys him greatly. He's twice as determined to find something, look harder until something catches his attention. There's got to be something he can use. She's not invincible. No one is.

It was all that damn looking that got him caught up in the first place.

She's aware of his attention. Lets him look as much as he likes. Might as well give him something to look at while he's working so hard. She knows his eyes are on her. Subtle and not so subtle movements guide those eyes where she wants them to go. Up the length of her long legs in those tight leather pants she wears. The round swell of her ass when she bends or leans over for anything. The line of her throat where another wolf's marks lay over what would be smooth skin. The dip of her collarbone. The small of her back that would look so striking under his spanning hands. Her skin is surprisingly devoid of marks for such a dangerous profession. As much of it as he can see, that is. If he had his way with her, she wouldn't be so lucky.

It's not that he's never appreciated her body before. He is a red-blooded male. Braeden's gorgeous when her mouth isn't moving and her feet aren't wherever she damn well pleases to put them. It's just that kind of thing that makes him want to snap her in half. Taking over his space at her leisure, entering their dens whenever the mood strikes her, never backing down when she clearly should for her own safety, threatening to answer his violence with her own violence. Fighting her head on is a little too much risk and not enough reward; and she damn well knows it.

And now this. This damn near oppressive physical attraction that goes on between them. This sexual energy between them that she thinks she controls. As if she hasn't appraised him before as well. Granted, not at length and to the extent he does now. But he has no weaknesses to find just by looking. Nothing she can get to. Except his temper. His instincts. That same little smile she has when she “catches” him looking. Even when being as crude as possible, it doesn't wipe that smug look off of her face.

It's the same look she has when they're face to face, mid-argument, mid-insult. He knows his eyes are the electric blue of a killer. The rest of the humans know better than to test him at this point. Not without some weapon in their hand. Of course, she's armed. She stays armed. But her hands are open, she uses them a lot when she's particularly animated. When they're this close, she crosses her arms. On anyone else, that's a defensive move. Submissive behavior. Hand-in-hand with shoulders slouching and breaking eye contact. Not on Braeden, of course not on Braeden.

Her folded arms hitch her breasts up. She inflates to match his size as best she can with her human body. She won't shrink from his glare. Answering his challenge with one of her own.

Well, naturally he looked. He's pissed off, not dead. Again.

There's pressure in the back of his head, building off the heavy pounding of their accelerated heartbeats. Or his accelerated heartbeat is building off the throbbing pressure in the back of his head. Tension fills his spine, spills over into his limbs. His hands ache, his legs ache, his jaws fucking ache. All of it urging him towards violent action. He wants to roar in her face, slam her into something solid, strangle her, take her a-fucking-part, shove her face down on his bed and fuck her into submissi–

And then that scent catches him. Or rather, he catches it. Not the normal scent of her anger, of her aggression and defiance. Something else light. Subtle almost, but not subtle enough.

Arousal.

Oh, so she's not as bulletproof as she thinks she is! The first time nearly got by him. His senses aren't as sharp as they were before he was killed. But the second wave is stronger. Obvious. Unmistakable at this range. Of all the things to be weakened by, it's her hormones. Well, who could blame her? He was brilliant, he was strong, he was healthy, his fashion sense was so much better than 96% of everybody, he was an apex predator, and he could sing!

His grin is as dark and as it is feral. All teeth and cunning and predation. It does nothing to inspire fear or shut off the aroused scent. If anything it gets stronger. Her eyes are dilated. She's not panting, but she's not far from it either. The silence– the air between them is thick. Heavy with the scent of her sex, anticipation, pheromones, pure want. If he breathes in deep enough, he can taste her on his tongue. All the tension that was locked up in his spine pools downward. The growl he lets out has a visible effect on her. A quick little intake of breath. Her full lips parting. She knows he knows.

This is the part where he crudely taunts her and her body's betrayal. She so clearly wants him, it'd be embarrassing if it wasn't so goddamn hot. This is the part where he denies her cruelly. Oh, he could fuck her. The verging on uncomfortable tightness in his jeans is every proof of that. She would feel him for days, wouldn't walk right for a week. But orgasms aren't forever. He can always find a willing party to fuck. Crushing her pride under his heel would last longer, and be infinitely more satisfying.

He doesn't get that far, though, because she attacks first. A violent kiss where their teeth click and she bites him. She bites him! Her hands on his face to keep him where she wants him to be while she bears down on him with a growl of her own. Only now does it occur to him that she knew damn well what she smelled like, what she looked like. She baited him, and he sauntered right into the trap. Caught him in a positive feedback loop of his own senses and her body until he's just as worked up as she is. Until he's growling into her mouth and fighting back. Until he so clearly wants her too.

Goddamn her.

He should shove her on her ass. Throw her out of his goddamn apartment. Snap her damn neck.

Later, he promises himself. Later, he'll shred her clothing and lock her out. Leave her bleeding in the stairwell.

Right now, he's busy grabbing handfuls of her glorious ass and hauling her up against him. It does nothing to disrupt their kiss. Just like in everything they do, she refuses to back down. He fulfills his earlier desire by slamming her into the wall hard enough to make her gasp. Now he takes control of their kiss, invading her mouth as she does his den. It's a hard pressing of lips, and he bulls his way in to touch, taste and take everything. When she hit the wall though, one of her hands flailed out and hit something on his desk nearby. Something heavy, and breakable from the sounds of it.

And that's enough to jar him out of this lustful state because no where in this . . . situation were any of his things to be damaged and now he is going to throw her the fuck out. Or, he was. Those legs of hers, long, powerful legs at that, locked around him and she's grinding in just the right place and he's still mad about whatever that was falling, but let's be honest the mess will still be there after he pounds her into bliss, and he'll just deduct the replacement(s) from her pay.

Ripping her leather pants is hardly fitting revenge. But it's a start. He did promise himself that he'd shred her clothing. She caught him before he could completely ruin them, unhooking her legs to start taking them off herself. Well, that shit is taking too long, and he refuses to let this encounter be dictated by her terms alone. So he releases her ass (for the time being) to drop to his knees. The first thing to go are those damn motorcycle boots. Before that goes to her head, those half-ripped pants are yanked down and then he's eye level with white lace panties. That's much better.

The scent of her hits him full force and it damn near makes him dizzy. So close to the source, he doesn't even fight it. His head is buried between her legs so fast she squeaks. Braeden. Mercenary badass warrior woman squeaked. It should matter more to him but it doesn't. It's not even in the back seat, it's in the trunk compared to the hot-sticky-sweet, sweat-salty scent/taste flooding his senses. He doesn't exactly mean to moan into her, rub his cheeks over her smooth thighs until they part for him. It just happens. Some weird instinct, he can't help it. Braeden is amused and seems content to let him burrow to his heart's content. And yeah, that's cute and all, but he doesn't want her standing over him either. Those legs of her's go over his shoulders and now he has her where he wants her. Even with her back arched off the wall, she has to depend on him to stay stable. Hell, he ought to drop her ass for all the trouble she causes him. Now that would be payback for her willful destruction of his property earlier.

Instead, with one hand, he makes her spaghetti tank into a strapless bunch of material pooled at her waist. He isn't the least bit surprised to see her blood orange bra is a completely different color than her panties. Of course she doesn't fucking match. This is still Braeden, isn't it?

Oh, but if she were wet before, she's soaked though now. Lucky for her, he's been feeling the clean-shaven look lately. Although there's certainly something to be said about leaving beard burn on such lovely thighs. It just means she won't be distracted by anything other than the heat of his mouth and the press of his tongue through her panties. Just one long, hard swipe and her thighs open up with a little sigh. Yeah, that's what he wants to see. Now he can get to work.

She's plenty wet, but she could get wetter. Louder. Her back isn't doing that delicious curve. Her thighs aren't shaking yet. They will be though. The way he's practically making out with those delicate lips, as if there was no cotton barrier between them, certainly makes her hips move. When he chuckles right into her sensitized flesh, she squirms all the more. He can feel her muscles contract through the flimsy material. She's panting, making little noises of effort while she tries to follow his tongue. Pushing against the wall with her hands to give herself leverage. Pulling and yanking on her so-wet panties when that doesn't work.

She wants to take her pleasure, but he's in no hurry to give it all to her. Silly girl. Think because a man is face down in your pussy, it's all about you? Those panties won't be coming off without his say so. And he could hold her up for hours if he wanted to. That's what she gets for being such a pain in the ass. Besides, he's probably got another twenty minutes before his knees start to ache. Another ten on top of that before he'll have to move. He can afford to go slow. After all, how are you supposed to savor your meal if you rush right through it?

No, time had to be set aside to eat and eat only. All the senses get used. The sight, my God, the sight of her thighs straining, her chest heaving—those breasts unfairly contained by that bra—the way she bites her lower lip to stifle herself. Everything is a goddamn battle with her. The sound of her heart, her panting, the noises he is able to wrangle out of her, occasionally the sound of her nails scraping against the wall. The same scent he's been smelling is so heady and thick down here. So goddamn good, so close to taste. Hot, sticky, sweet wetness, the sweat she's working up trying to ride his face. He can feel her muscles tremble, her legs press down on his back to force him where she wants him, one of her hands in his hair. Any other conquest would be warned away from his hair–he doesn't go through the trouble of making it look as perfect as it does for grabby hands to ruin it–but Braeden isn't any other conquest. Braeden is fucking Braeden and fucking Braeden is pulling on his hair because of his mouth and if he doesn't relieve some of the pressure in his jeans right the fuck now he doesn't know what he'll do.

The button undone and zipper down means he can get back to business without intimate knowledge of how many seams are pressing into his dick. As much fun as it's been, it's time for those pesky white lace panties to get out of his way. He'll be damned if he moves for her to take them off like she seems to want. There's a pop, and a tell-tale ripping sound as he tears them clean off her body. Her scent gains a tint of anger—Braeden's pissed he ruined yet another article of her clothing—but she's totally hot for it. He won't give her a chance to berate him though, putting the flat of his tongue to work so nothing comes out of that damn mouth but a startled, loud moan. Unlike the violent meeting of lips earlier, he knows to be gentle here. Driven, but slow. So she feels every swipe of his tongue between those wet, plump lips. The time he could devote to licking and sucking them alone, Christ, one of them would catch a cramp or something. Ah hell, it'd be worth it.

So wet, she just gets so goddamn wet. It's getting all over his mouth, his chin. It only makes him more voracious. Makes him seal his lips over her and suck. That makes her cry out to God. His tongue moves from the bottom of her slit to the top once; and he feels her shiver go right through him. There it is. Her shy little clit isn't so shy or so little now. He finally, finally relents and allows her to move him the way she wants. Braeden can have her momentary control while he's learning. How much suction to use on her clit, where she likes his tongue the best, what kind of rhythm will really have her making those high pitched little sounds he's growing to like so much. Once, he's got it (just enough suction to feel it, more tongue, especially on the underside of her clit, constant pressure, yeah, yeah, like that, don't stop. . . !) then he's fucking got her.

He'll never forget the way she shouts. That rush of wetness right into his mouth. Her back curving into that delicious arch, her nails raking across his scalp, her ankles locking at his back and her thighs doing their very best to crush him, take his goddamn breath away. She's shaking apart on his tongue and he gets to watch her fall.

Figuratively, of course, he's ready for it when she goes limp. If not for him, she'd probably have knocked herself out on the desk. While amusing, that's not what he has planned at all. Well, not today.

She gets a minute—a full minute, he counted sixty seconds exactly in his head—and then she belongs to him.

She doesn't see it coming until it's too late. His hands already locked down on her lower body and no matter how much she squeals or pulls on his hair—which is pretty goddamn hard to be honest, thankfully he likes that shit—she's not going any-goddamn-where until she shatters like that again.

This time doesn't take as long. Soon enough her hands stop pushing and start pulling. Not that it matters or anything. That first orgasm was a gift. That one was for her. This one is for him.

If he had higher ceilings or he wasn't sure she'd fucking tear his ceiling fan down, he'd really show off. Stand up straight with her on his shoulders and arms alone, no choice but to take whatever he gives her, however long he decides to give it to her.

“ P—Peter. . . ! ”

Oh God yes. It doesn't even matter if she was just calling his name to make him stop or keep going. She fucking said it with that sweet little stutter. His name will never sound the same in her mouth again. If she said anything else, it's intelligible over the whimpering noise she's making while he shoves her over the edge of a second orgasm. He wants to remember forever the way she looks trying to get away from him and his mouth. Damn near trying to crawl backwards up the wall and trash him off. Sometimes women get ridiculous bursts of strength in the throes of orgasm. And Braeden's already a pretty strong woman for being human. It's not enough—hell, it's nothing compared to his strength. There's gonna be bruises all over her thighs and ass tomorrow from holding her still. She's going to take every bit of this climax.

The notion of mercy only enters his mind when her legs are sufficiently useless. And then he puts her down. The only thing keeping her upright now is the wall and sheer force of will. Him? He's taking a seat while his knees and jaw recover because goddammit he's earned it.

Hell, he's so proud of himself, he's not even going to say anything. Just sit back and let his work speak for itself. And oh, she looks a hot mess. Hair mussed, face red, lips parted, naked from the waist down, nothing but that bra and her bunched up tank from the waist up. There's even scratch marks on the wall above her head. She fucking scratched some of the paint off his walls. Honestly, he's too impressed to be pissed off. When he licks his lips, tastes her all over them, it's not even for her benefit. It effects her anyway. He's very familiar with the scent of her arousal spiking by now.

“ Nice to know. . .you can do something with your mouth other than talk too damn much. . .”

Unbelievable.

Two earth-shattering orgasms and she's still talking shit.

What the hell is she made of?

“ Glad to see you can express a complete thought again. Although, I wouldn't be adverse to hearing you say my name some more.”

Thoroughly disheveled as she is, Braeden just gives him a lazy grin. Brazenly holds his gaze while she wiggles out of what's left of her top. Then snaps what he thought was some sort of decoration on the front of her bra to make it come apart—and tosses it at him. Right. The fuck. At him.

“ How much longer are you going to sit there with your dick out, Peter?”

How the hell did this happen?

She's doing what he just told her to do.

She's the one that was falling to pieces in his mouth not five minutes ago.

She's the one that scratched paint off his wall.

She's the one that's completely naked in his apartment.

He could physically throw her out right now. Unless she has weapons hidden in her hair or something, there'd be fuck all she could do about it. Leave her in the hallway for all his neighbors to see, throw her clothes off the balcony, or shit, into her face. She couldn't stop that. He could do all manner of violent things to her that would end in her dying and body disposal. Blood is hell to get out of his things, though for fucking Braeden he might make an exception and let the stains linger. Something to remember her by. There'd be absolutely nothing she could do about that either.

She has to know all these things. Every ability he has is superior to her own with their clothes on. It goes without saying that she's outmatched with all her soft, vulnerable parts exposed as they are now.

So why the hell does it feel like all the control has shifted to her again?

Braeden's just standing there, catching her breath, looking down at him expectantly. Like he owes her an answer. Like this whole situation isn't her goddamn fault.

The only thing that saves her from being a spectacle for the rest of the people in his building is the fact that his bedroom is closer to them than the door is. There's no reason he shouldn't get off before he throws her out on her ass.

It's supposed to catch her off guard when he rushes her. Up from the floor and throwing her over his shoulder faster than she can react. She's supposed to be terrified, or pissed off. He just snatched all the power and control right back from her. Instead what does he get? She sounds fucking delighted. Fucking Braeden.

Every fantasy up to this point was with her face down, ass up in his bed. That way he doesn't have to listen to her, doesn't even have to look at her face. Just pound her into the mattress until she breaks or the bed does.

As usual, she blows a hole right through his plans when she rips his shirt in the process of being tossed on the bed. The material just falls off of him without any effort on his part. Look at her, look at her! Sitting there like she didn't just destroy a $75 Louis Vuitton shirt. Hell, she's proud of it!

“ The label on that shirt costs more than you and your allegedly Italian boots.”

Not really. Braeden is by far more expensive. How much more he can't let himself think about or he'll get light-headed.

Her lips quirk and legs spread in a lewd open invitation. “ You just gonna stand there and talk about it? Or you gonna make me pay for it?”

Oh that does it.

He snarls at her before he's on her. One of her wrists ends up in a bruising grip, the other in her curly brown hair. His fangs retracted prior to the searing kiss they got caught up in. He doesn't remember who's responsible for that. Everything is all heat and friction and skin-on-skin and it's not enough.

“ I should strangle you with what's left of that shirt. . .” His threat is delivered to her lovely throat. Even now being so close to it, they both know it's bullshit. If he were going to strangle her, he'd do it with his own hands.

Both of them are working to get his jeans off. Braeden uses her hands, her legs wrapped around him, bites him again and orders him to get a condom. Orders him. Yeah, he'll get the goddamn condom—the last thing anyone needs is for fucking Braeden to get fucking pregnant by him–but she's gonna put it on because he ordered her to do it. He doesn't make it easy; finally getting his hands on the breasts that she's kept from him all this time. They're not the biggest he's ever seen. Not the smallest either. They fit nicely in his hands and she makes this wonderful little sound when her nipples are pinched and rolled between his fingers. He'll remember that sensitivity for next time.

Braeden not only put the condom on, she guided him right where she wanted him to go. No matter how much shit she talks, she still wants it. Wants him. She gets him in one hard shove. He hopes it hurts.

The legs around him tighten. He punched some loud shout of her with that thrust. Good. She's enjoyed her reign for far too long. As a matter of fact, before they really get started, he's reaching for one of his pillows to shove underneath her. He wants to get nice and deep. Deeper than whoever she's been fucking with up to this point. They're nothing compared to him. No one will ever give it to her like he can.

There is no starting slow. There is no being gentle or going easy. He's incapable of tenderness and she wouldn't deserve it even if he was. There's nothing but the violent meeting of their bodies. They come together as harshly as they always have. Her legs are squeezing the life out of him. He's putting yet another set of hand shaped bruises on her hips. She's using her heels again to try and control him. More than once she's tried to roll him over. He won't allow it. Later, when he's taken his pleasure from her, he might allow her to ride him to her heart's content. But being on top now, bearing down on her so good his thousand count Egyptian cotton sheets are in danger of being ripped? He's not giving that up for anything.

She's as loud as she was before. Loud and ever-so-demanding. The moaning he rather likes. The commands and taunting, not so much. Every other word out of her mouth is designed to piss him off.

“ Shut up.” He silences her with a hand over her mouth. “ The only thing I want to hear out of you is begging.”

All she does is bite down on his fingers and tighten up her muscles. Now he's the noisy one. Smartass mercenary.

“ I'm gonna make you suffer.” This promise he makes while hitching one of her legs up over his shoulder. When he fucks into her this way, she throws her head back with some loud mix of a sigh and shout and that's so much fucking better. Now he can focus without getting distracted. He gives it to her as hard as he thinks her body can handle. Slow enough so they both feel everything. She'll be sore as all hell tomorrow, but hopefully too satisfied to bitch. It definitely feels good on his end. The hot-sticky-sweet smell is stronger than it ever was. His room, his bed, his pillows are going to stink of sex for a while and he doesn't mind at all. He certainly doesn't mind watching her breasts bounce around. She's not tight like a virgin, but her muscles know what they're doing. Warm, snug, she's opening up and clamping down at the same time and it's a-fucking-mazing. Her body's just as greedy as she is. When their hips rock together, she's pulling him in, cinching up on him and there's all that sweet, sweet pressure, goddamn. . .

–there's banging on the wall.

The wall his bed is against–There is motherfucking banging on his goddamn wall. What the fuck? One of his neighbors is being obnoxious at the worst possible time. Braeden's making all the right sounds, moving in all the right ways, it's hotter, tighter, there's the filthy fucking wet sound every time their hips meet, and he'll be damned if it's ruined because Mr. and Mrs. Yoga Instructor over there can't find their happy place. He has no patience, no forethought before he roars right back. He might have to prove there's no wild animals in his apartment at some point, but the banging has stopped. Well, the banging on the wall, at least. He has every reason to shove Braeden further up on the bed and fuck into her hard enough to knock the headboard against the wall. Then they can complain about noise.

She loves it. Laughs and winds her arms around his neck. Tells him he's a fucking beast. It's possible that's the worst double entendre he's ever heard in his life. Usually he doesn't have to roll his eyes during really good sex. But there's really good sex, and then there's really good sex with fucking Braeden.

It doesn't take much to fuck her right through her bout of amusement. She can't make such bad jokes when she's too busy crying out and clutching at him. No more interruptions, goddammit. All at once he shoves her leg off his shoulder and sits back. Braeden's so growly it's almost comical. Before she can swing on him, he pulls her up to straddle him. All that hostility evaporates once he's inside her again. If only that shut her up all the time.

Lifting her by her ass helps her raise off of him; almost all the way. Gravity does the work after that. They're close, bodies flush together. So goddamn close. There's pressure building up at the base of his spine and groin. The same pressure from earlier. Sweeter, tighter like a coil winding to the limit. She's panting, making that high-pitched whimpering noise that he fucking adores; right in his ear. He can't ignore it. Can't ignore the way she's winding tighter around him. Can't ignore her blunted nails clawing down his back. Her back curves and then it hits her. Braeden's no wolf but she howls loud enough. He can't begin to notice his ears ringing for all the wonderful spasms all around him. Just when he didn't think she could get any tighter, any wetter, she proves him wrong; as usual.

Because she's practically climbing him like a tree, he has to hold onto her. It's not her fault, he's just that good. But even he has limits. For all his hard work, and her quivering muscles, and her sweet, sweet little sounds, he's not holding onto Braeden for her own benefit anymore. One of his hands clamps down onto her shoulder so he can fuck up into her as deep as he can possibly get and– he recognizes the urge bubbling up from his chest and into his throat. He doesn't want to howl because of fucking Braeden, but he doesn't have the presence of mind to stop it. So when his orgasm is ripped from his spine and forced out through his dick, he's too busy trying to manage one instinct to stop another. He bit down, and not gently either. Thankfully, the hand that was hanging onto her shoulder blocked his teeth. It was his own blood he tasted. His noise is muffled, the pain registers somewhat, but the intensity of his pleasure isn't dampened at all. All the tension that filled him before tightened to a point, then snapped. The release is dizzying. . .

How they ended up lying flat on the bed when he had been sitting up is beyond him. He fell over, she fell over, they fell over, whatever. It doesn't even matter. Nor does it matter to him that he's probably quite heavy on top of the equally exhausted mercenary. She doesn't seem to give much of a shit either. She's failed to unlock her arms and legs from around him like she wants him to stay there. He is nice enough, at least, to retrieve the now soaked pillow from underneath her and toss it. . . somewhere across the room. It'll be fine, it's a pillow.

When his arm drops against the side of the bed, it hits something solid. Wooden. He thinks it's the nightstand. That's wooden. Maple wood. It's not the same shape, however. The nightstand is something like twenty-four inches across. This. . . thing, is more like four. So what the hell is it? He's exhausted, but his healed hand has to be sending the wrong information to his brain. He has to move his head and look.

“ Are you fucking kidding me?” And sure enough, that thing he keeps hitting isn't his nightstand. It's the box spring to his bed. They went at it so hard, they fucked his mattress four inches off of the box spring. He can't believe it. “ Why do you only mess up the things I own? My wall, my shirt, my bed, my back. You are a goddamn menace.”

“ Jus' go t'sleep, Peter. You're too tired t'be a drama queen.”

He most certainly is not.

Well, he is. But that's not the point. The point is that the woman's a hurricane. Destroys everything she touches without remorse. Even now, she's completely ignored him and his growling and gone to sleep. In his bed. Without even asking. Ugh, why does his door have to be so far away? After that sexual marathon, he really doesn't have the energy to drag her all the way out there and throw her out.

Fine. She's gonna stay, she'll make herself useful. Braeden lets out an 'oof' when he settles on top of her again, but she doesn't care about his weight anymore now than she did five minutes ago. Doesn't even stop him from laying his head so close to her scarred throat. It's not being affectionate despite what his instincts say. They got him in enough trouble with that almost bite incident. He's making it easier on himself if he wakes up and decides to murder her after all. That's it.