Chapter 315: Self Control

Words : 1647 Updated : Oct 5th, 2025

Chapter 315: Self Control Jacob~ Who would’ve thought that someone like me—an all-knowing being—could ever feel a flicker of fear... over a tiny mortal? Easter’s heat was nothing like I’d imagined. I’d braced myself for something intense, maybe even overwhelming, but I thought the first night would be the peak—the hardest point to endure. Oh I was so wrong. By sunrise on the second day, I understood: Easter’s heat wasn’t a passing storm. It was a siege—persistent, clever, and always pressing at my defenses from some new direction. I wasn’t just weathering it; I was the besieged fortress, holding my walls together while she circled, testing every weakness. Every shift in her tone, every brush of her fingers against my skin, every glance that lingered just a fraction too long—it all chipped away at me. And every time I resisted, my body screamed in protest, aching with the tension of restraint. That first morning, I woke to the press of her soft body curled against mine, her warmth melting into me like the sun itself. My shirt was gone—vanished sometime in the night without me noticing—and her lips were tracing lazy paths along my collarbone. The air we shared was warm, tinged with the faint scent of her hair and the heat of her breath. I caught her wandering hand just before it slipped past the waistband of my sweatpants. "Good morning to you too," I murmured, my voice rough with sleep. Her answering smile was pure trouble, and it set something dangerous alight in her eyes. "You could make it better." I rolled us gently until she was flat on her back, her hair spilling across the pillow in a dark halo. My arm came down to pin hers above her head—not rough, but enough to keep her in place. "Easter..." I let her name linger in the air, heavy with warning and unspoken temptation. Her cheeks were flushed, her emerald eyes catching the thin streams of morning light slipping through the curtains. "You know you want me," she whispered, and there was no mistaking the challenge in her tone. I leaned in, my breath ghosting against the shell of her ear. "That’s the problem," I murmured, low enough that she had to feel the words more than hear them. Then I pushed myself away before my resolve could shatter entirely. I retreated to the kitchen like it was neutral ground. I decided to make breakfast the mortal way—eggs, fresh bread, seared tomatoes—because the act of cooking gave me something to focus on. I could’ve summoned the food with a flick of thought, but magic was too easy, too quick. I needed the deliberate clatter of a knife against a cutting board, the hiss of a pan, the rhythmic motions that kept my hands occupied and my mind from wandering back to the bedroom. Easter’s footsteps padded softly across the floor, the sound light and unhurried. She emerged wearing one of my shirts, the hem brushing just above her thighs. Bare legs caught in the pale wash of morning sunlight made her look almost unreal—like she’d stepped straight out of a dream I wasn’t ready to admit I’d been having. She leaned her hip against the counter, folding her arms loosely as she watched me crack eggs into the pan. "You know," she said, voice laced with playful mockery, "you’d be faster with magic." Without looking up, I kept my attention on the sizzling eggs. "I’m in no hurry," I replied. "Besides, this way I get to show off my excellent cooking skills." She tilted her head, studying me like she could see right through the calm mask I was trying to keep. "Or," she said slowly, her lips curling, "you just like making me watch you." The spatula almost slipped right out of my hand. I fought to keep my face neutral, eyes fixed firmly on the pan. "Eat your breakfast, Easter," I said, and even to my own ears, it came out tighter than I’d meant. But she was still smiling when I slid the plate in front of her. The first day was a blur of touch and retreat. She’d curl into me on the couch, her head in my lap, and when I brushed her hair back from her face she’d kiss my palm. She’d trail her lips up my arm when I massaged her shoulders, then pout when I pulled away. I read to her when the haze gave her a brief reprieve. Old stories, poetry, even a badly-written romance novel I found on my shelf. She listened with her eyes half-closed, smiling faintly, her fingers tracing idle shapes over my thigh. Whenever she asked for Rose and the baby, I told her the truth—Cassandra and Bubble had them safe, fed, and loved. "You’ll see them when you’re well," I promised each time. "Right now, they need their mother to be steady." She always nodded, though her eyes clouded with longing. By the second night, I decided she needed to burn some of the restless energy. "Come on," I said, tossing her one of my hoodies. "We’re going for a run." She blinked. "In the middle of the night?" I grinned. "Werewolves don’t exactly keep human hours." We ran under the moonlight, our paws—her first real run in wolf form—thudding softly on the forest floor. She was fast, surprisingly so for someone so new to it, her joy bleeding through our connection like sunlight. When we shifted back by the river, the world felt too quiet for what I was seeing. She stood there—completely naked, chest rising and falling, making her round breast dance to the rhythm, her skin was flushed and glowing under the moonlight. Her hair was a wild, tangled halo, her cheeks kissed crimson from the run. Then she closed the space between us in a single step, her body still radiating heat, and she crashed her mouth into mine. The kiss was so fierce my knees almost gave way, like the ground had just dropped out from under me. "Easter..." I warned, though my hands clearly weren’t on my side—sliding to her hips, then drifting lower until they cupped the perfect curve of her ass. She smiled against my lips, that wicked curve that always unraveled me. "I need you, Jacob. You have to see that." I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt, holding back the wave threatening to break. I didn’t even know a man could ache like this, my cock throbbing with every heartbeat. But I forced myself to breathe, to meet her gaze, and said low, "I know, sweetheart. But not like this." By the third morning, exhaustion was settling into my bones—not from lack of sleep, but from the constant restraint. Still, I cooked. Still, I massaged the knots from her shoulders, traced circles on her back when she curled against me on the couch, read to her until her breathing evened out. That afternoon, she perched cross-legged on the kitchen counter, idly swinging one foot as if she owned the space. Sunlight poured in from the window, catching the glint in her eyes while I stood at the stove, lazily stirring a pot of soup. "You’d make a good husband," she said out of nowhere, like she was commenting on the weather. I nearly lost my grip on the ladle. "That’s... definitely not something I hear every day." Her lips curved into that half-smile that always made trouble feel inevitable. "I think you like taking care of me." "I do," I said, quieter than I meant to. "Maybe too much." Her gaze softened for half a second, but then—there it was again—that slow-burning heat, the kind that didn’t ask for permission. She hopped down from the counter, bare feet padding across the tile, and stopped close enough for me to feel the warmth radiating off her skin. "Then stop holding back." I set the ladle aside, cupped her face in my hands, and rested my forehead against hers. My voice came out low, steady. "I’m holding back because I care, Easter. When this passes... I don’t want you waking up wishing we hadn’t rushed into something you weren’t ready for." Her breath caught. "And what if I’m ready now?" Gods, the way she looked at me—it almost melted me. That night, the heat finally began to ebb. I could feel it in the way her breathing slowed, the way her eyes cleared. She still pressed close on the bed, still touched me constantly, but it was less frantic now, more deliberate. We lay in bed, tangled together beneath the blankets, her head resting on my chest. I read to her from a leather-bound book, my voice low in the quiet room. The lamplight threw a golden glow over her curls, her freckles, the faint smile playing at her lips. It felt... dangerously perfect. She shifted, looking up at me. "Jacob?" "Mhm?" "Tell me how we first met. In detail." My heart stumbled over a beat. "I told you—we first met at your old house, back when you were still married to Ruben." She shook her head slowly, like she was sifting through fog. "No... I remember you saying that last time. I know you also said you and Natalie pulled me out of Ruben’s hands. But there’s... something missing. Like someone took scissors to my memory and cut whole pieces out." I froze, my hand still resting against the curve of her back. The truth pressed against my ribs like a weight. Her voice was soft, curious. "Why can’t I remember?" My throat felt tight. I forced a small smile, though my stomach had dropped to my feet. "That’s... a long story." "I’ve got time," she murmured. I closed the book, staring at the ceiling. For the first time in centuries, I didn’t know if I could say the words.

Chapter 315: Self Control

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