TASTE OF A BROKEN LUNA
Chapter 3
“You're finally single.”
Dominic’s words weren't a comfort; they were a claim. The interior of the SUV felt small, thick with the scent of his arousal and the heavy, metallic tang of the predator he kept on a short leash. Jess Whitman didn't move. She couldn't. Her pulse thrashed against the skin of her throat, a frantic bird caught in the sights of a hawk.
“You're an arrogant prick, Dominic Hale,” Jess bit out, though the fire in her tone was damp. “I just watched my life implode. I’ve got Michael’s scent all over me like a goddamn stain, and you’re sitting there doing math on my availability?”
Dominic shifted. The leather of the driver's seat groaned under his bulk. He didn't look at the road. He looked at her, his blue eyes fracturing into shards of gold in the dim light of the dashboard. “I’m not doing math, Jess. I’m stating a fact. That pathetic excuse for a wolf never deserved the ground you walked on. He wanted a plaything. I want a mate.”
“Don't use that word,” she snapped, her knuckles white as she gripped the door handle. “I’m wolfless. A glitch in the Whitman line. You're an Alpha heir. You need a queen with claws, not a girl who has to carry a pocketknife to feel safe.”
“Is that what you think?” Dominic’s voice dropped, a low, tectonic rumble that made the floorboards vibrate. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of her neck. His palm was a brand, searing hot. “You think a shift determines worth? I’ve seen Omegas with more bite than Council Alphas. You? You’ve got a furnace in your head and ice in your veins. You’re more wolf than Michael Reynolds will ever be.”
“Let go, Dom. My brothers are probably already tracking my phone.”
“Let them track it. Let Jonathan howl until his lungs burst.” Dominic’s thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind her ear, a gesture so possessive it made her toes curl. “I’ve spent a decade playing the loyal friend. I’ve sat at your table, drank your brothers' beer, and watched you look at every man in the room except me. That ends tonight.”
“We’re at my building,” she whispered, desperate to break the spell. “I’m going up. Alone.”
“The hell you are.”
Dominic killed the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, pressurized. He moved with a speed that defied his size, rounding the car and ripping her door open before she could even reach for the latch. He didn't offer a hand; he reached in and hauled her out, his grip firm on her waist.
“I can walk!” Jess hissed, shoving at his chest. It was like pushing against a brick wall.
“You’re shaking so hard your knees are going to give out,” he growled, ushering her toward the lobby. “Upstairs. Now.”
The elevator ride was a torture of proximity. Dominic stood behind her, his heat radiating through her hoodie, his breath stirring the loose hairs at the nape of her neck. Jess stared at the floor, her mind a chaotic mess of Michael’s betrayal and Dominic’s sudden, overwhelming presence.
The moment they stepped inside her apartment, the air changed. It was small—a student’s place, shared with Emily Parker, who was thankfully out for the night.
“Ice,” Dominic commanded, pointing toward the kitchen.
“I can get my own ice,” Jess snapped, but he was already there, his large frame making her tiny kitchen look like a dollhouse. He grabbed a towel, filled it with cubes, and turned back to her.
“Sit.”
She sat at the small wooden table. He knelt between her knees, a position of service that felt dangerously like a trap. He took her hand—the one she’d used to deck Michael—and pressed the ice pack against her swollen knuckles.
“Fuck,” she winled, the cold biting into her skin.
“Steady,” he murmured. He didn't look up. He focused on her hand, his touch surprisingly light. “He’s lucky I didn't rip his throat out, Jess. The only reason he’s still breathing is because you asked me to leave it.”
“I don't need a hero, Dom. I need a shower.”
“You need to realize that you’re not alone.” He finally looked up. The gold in his eyes was vivid now, the mark of a wolf pushing to the surface. “You’ve spent your whole life trying to prove you don't need anyone because the pack treats you like a liability. You’re not a liability to me. You’re a prize.”
Jess felt the tears coming again, and she hated it. She hated being vulnerable, especially in front of him. “Stop it. Just… stop being nice to me. It’s worse than the yelling.”
“I’m not being nice.” Dominic stood up, pulling her with him. The ice pack thudded to the floor. He didn't care. He backed her against the refrigerator, his hands pinning her shoulders. “I’m being honest. I want you, Jess Whitman. I’ve wanted you since you were eighteen and walked into that New Year’s party looking like a goddamn revolution.”
“My brothers will kill you,” she breathed, her heart slamming against her ribs.
“Let them try.”
He leaned in, his nose brushing hers. The scent of him—smoke, cedar, and raw Alpha—drowned out the world. “Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you don't feel the way the air thrums when we’re in the same room. Tell me Michael is the only one who gets to touch you.”
“I hate you,” she whispered, but her hands were already sliding up his chest, finding the hard, corded muscle beneath his shirt.
“Liar.”
He crushed his mouth to hers.
It wasn't a question. It was a demand. Dominic tasted like dark coffee and desperation. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming her with a ferocity that made Jess’s head spin. She groaned, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her back arching as he pulled her flush against him.
He was hard—unforgivingly so—pressing into her belly through his jeans. The contrast was a shock; the star quarterback, the disciplined icon, losing his mind over a wolfless girl in a cramped kitchen.
Dominic’s hands slid down, gripping her thighs and hoisting her up. Jess wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back. He carried her toward the bedroom, his mouth never leaving hers.
He dropped her onto the bed, the mattress groaning. Before she could catch her breath, he was on top of her. He ripped his shirt over his head, the fabric tearing in his haste. His chest was a landscape of scars and power, his wolf tattoo shifting with the movement of his muscles.
“You're mine tonight,” he growled, his voice a low, animal rasp.
He didn't wait for her to undress. He yanked her hoodie over her head, then her leggings, leaving her in the black lace she’d worn for another man. His eyes darkened until they were almost black.
“He saw you in this?” Dominic’s voice was lethal.
“No,” Jess panted. “He didn't. I was in the closet. I saw him, he didn't see me.”
“Good.” Dominic’s hand slid between her thighs, his fingers finding her already soaked. “Because I’m the only one who gets to see you like this. Ever again.”
He moved with a frantic, messy hunger. He didn't care about grace. He cared about possession. He entered her with one deep, violent surge that knocked the air from her lungs. Jess screamed, her head hitting the pillow, her eyes rolling back as he filled her to the absolute limit.
“Dom!” she cried out, her fingers clawing at his arms.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his sweat dripping onto her skin. “See who’s inside you, Jess. See who’s claiming you.”
He began to move, his thrusts short and brutal. He was pounding into her, his hips slamming against hers with a rhythmic, wet sound that echoed in the small room. It wasn't the polite, careful sex she’d had with Michael. This was a breaking. A rebuilding.
Jess’s body responded with a violence of its own. She met every thrust, her hips tilting up, her teeth bared. The pleasure was too much, a jagged lightning bolt that threatened to shatter her.
“More,” she sobbed, her legs tightening around him. “Please, Dom, more.”
He flipped her over, dragging her to the edge of the bed. He stood on the floor, pulling her hips to him, and drove in from behind. The angle was deeper, hitting a spot that made Jess’s vision go white. He gripped her waist so hard his fingers left bruises, his chest heaving as he poured everything he had into her.
“Mine,” he groaned, the word a physical weight. “Always… fucking… mine.”
The climax hit her like an explosion. Jess’s internal muscles clamped down on him, sending her into a convulsing, screaming release. Dominic roared, his body jerking as he came, his knot swelling and locking them together in the ancient, biological bond.
He collapsed over her, his heavy frame crushing her into the mattress. They stayed like that for minutes, the only sound their ragged breathing and the ticking of the clock on the nightstand.
Slowly, the weight of reality began to settle. The heat faded into a stinging, lingering warmth. Jess felt the literal weight of his body—the raw, 3D reality of a man who could destroy her world just as easily as he’d mended it tonight.
Dominic rolled to his side, pulling her into his arm. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed on the floor where he’d dropped his jeans. He ignored it. It buzzed again. And again.
He reached down, his face hardening as he looked at the screen.
“What?” Jess asked, her voice raspy.
Dominic didn't answer. He turned the phone toward her. It was a group chat. The Whitman brothers.
Jonathan: Dominic, why is your car at Jess’s place? And why aren't you answering your goddamn phone?
Marcus: I’m five minutes out. If you’ve touched her, Hale, NFL contract or not, I’m putting you in the ground.
Jess looked at the door. Then at Dominic.
“They're here,” she whispered.
A heavy fist pounded on the front door, the wood splintering under the force of an Alpha’s rage.
“HALE! OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!” Jonathan’s roar shook the walls.
Dominic stood up, reaching for his pants, a dark, dangerous smile playing on his lips. “I guess it’s time to tell them.”
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