Bare skin pressed to mine.
Her breath is soft and warm on my chest.
One of her thighs tangled over my own, her hand splayed possessively over my heart like she’s staking a claim she doesn’t even know she made.
And maybe she hasn’t said it out loud—but I have because I know the truth.
This woman? Marigold Santos?
She’s mine.
Not in the way people toss that word around.
Not in the way I thought I wanted anyone.
No, this is different.
This deep and old and written in something wilder than magic.
I knew it the moment I saw her. And when she kissed me like I was something sweet and dangerous all at once? I was a goner.
She’s mine.
My Honey.
My fated mate.
I made damn sure of it when I sank my teeth into that soft place between her neck and shoulder—and left a mark that says mine in a way no app ever could.
I should have warned her. Explained what it meant.
But I was drunk on her moans.
Her curves. Her scent. Her sex.
And when her nails clawed down my back and she whispered my name like a wish, my Badger decided it was already done.
And for once I agree, the fucker’s right.
She shifts beside me and lets out the softest sigh.
I look down at her.
Flushed cheeks. Swollen lips. The scent of sugar and frosting still lingering on her skin, in her hair, somehow.
She’s radiant. Real.
My fucking everything.
I’m about to wrap my arm around her again when my phone buzzes. The screen lights up.
Bobby.
Dammit.
I almost ignore it—until I see the message.
Bobby the Moron
