I take my hands from her mouth and go between her legs, scooping up as much as I can, shoving it back inside of her with my fingers, and then slide her panties back into place.
Satisfied, I use her tongue to clean my fingers.
Chapter eighteen
Martine Lilian Herron
Iwake up to the weight of his arm around my waist. I don’t remember what happened.
There’s blood on my breasts—my cut is open again. A delicious ache throbs between my thighs, but none of that is what frightens me.
It’s the strong, warm, muscular arms wrapped around my body. It’s the wolf of the man in bed next to me.
For a second, I don’t move. His chest is pressed against my back, steady and warm. His other arm is under my neck, holding me like he’d been there all night.
I look at some of the scars that coat his arms, markings I've never had the privilege of seeing.
The sheets are smooth, the room is dim and quiet, and I know exactly where I am. Our bed. I barely remember passing out at the dining table, but the pain in my body reminds me. My cheekis sore, and I have a sticky wetness between my legs and a still swollen clit.
He’d never held me like this before. Not even after everything else he’s done to me or for me. This feels…intimate…
I turn toward him slowly, careful not to wake him. His arm loosens just enough for me to shift, his hand falling to the small of my back.
He looks peaceful like this, and less sharp. The edge in his jaw has softened; his mouth is slightly parted, his lashes dark against his skin. With his blond hair falling over his forehead, there’s something almost boyish about him.
But I prefer him awake.
I prefer the man who watches me with that piercing gaze, who doesn’t hesitate when he wants something, especially when that something is me. I prefer him decisive and in control, the version of him who claims what’s his without apology. There’s a thrill in the way he moves when he’s certain, when there’s no doubt that my body belongs to him. The softness disappears then, replaced by something that makes me feel owned most exquisitely.
As beautiful as he is, I find myself waiting for him to wake up and remind me who I belong to.
I shouldn’t. I know better.
But I lean in anyway.
Just a breath away from his mouth, I hesitate. My heart is pounding. I hate that he makes me feel like this, unsure, nervous, like I’m fifteen again and about to do something stupid like steal my parents' car or jump into a lake from a very, very tall rock.
I do it anyway. I press a soft kiss to his lips.
He growls once he feels my lips on his.
Low and rough in his throat. His eyes snap open, always dark, my reflection mirrored in them as usual.
Before I can pull back, he grabs me, one hand at the back of my neck, the other tightening around my waist. I barely have time to breathe before he pulls me flush against his chest. I feel his erection already stabbing at my stomach.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi, darling,” he mutters in a voice thick with sleep.
His hand slides up my back, slow, possessive.
“You kissed me.”
“I couldn’t help it,” I say, not bothering to deny it.
His eyes search mine for a moment like he’s deciding what to do with me. Then he kisses me back, harder, wrapping my hair around his hand to pull tightly and command my movements. I love him like that, needing to remind me who I belong to.
The kiss deepens.
