From me to him.
He accepts instantly.
The next kiss is firmer, a deliberate press of his mouth on my shoulder. His tongue follows, slow and sure, stroking against my skin like he’s savoring it. My knees nearly give out.
My hands float up over my head, fingertips seeking him blindly. I bury them in his hair, not to pull him closer, though God, I want to, but to steady myself. To keep fromfalling.
“Fuck,” he hisses, his voice unsteady, fraying at the edges.
His lips are on the move now, ghosting over my skin, trailing higher. Gliding up my neck to my ear as a moan escapes me, soft, helpless, wanting.
“You taste so fucking sweet, Laurel,” he groans. “I knew it. I knew it’d be like this.”
I press back into him, needing more, and I feel the way his breath stutters, the way his body tenses like he’s holding back something dangerous.
“We should stop,” he says, but his hands are on my waist as he turns me in his arms and lifts me like I weigh nothing. He sets me on the edge of a nearby table, the old wood creaking beneath me as we come face to face. My legs wrap around his hips, my arms around his neck. I draw him closer, pulling him into me. It’s instinctive. Desperate. His hands roam along my waist, my thighs, the curve of my hip, like he’s trying to learn me, memorize me, through touch alone.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper, tilting my head back as his lips find my jaw. “Don’t you dare stop.”
“Careful, Kitten,” he says as his mouth trails down to my collarbone, which he bites gently. “Don’t give me permission. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yes, I do,” I argue back. I’d do anything,giveanything, to get his lips on mine.
His control unravels like a string pulled tight too long. One hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back so his mouth can trace a line up my throat. The other grips my thigh, holding me to him like I’m the only solid thing left in a world that’s spinning out.
Just before his lips reach mine, I make the mistake of opening my eyes.
They’re watching. Brothers. Sisters. Some of them are subtle. They pretend not to look, casting sidelong glances beneath lowered lashes. Others are more open about it. Blatantly staring. Like we’re a show on a stage. A performance.
He used to bring town girls to parties. Do them in front of everyone. We all saw it.
The spell breaks.
Both hands on his chest, I push Carrson away and blurt, “You never told me you could bond more than one woman.”
His eyes meet mine, lust-dazed, heavy-lidded. One slow blink. Two. “What did you just say?”
“Three women,” I rush on, my heart pounding, hoping I got it right, otherwise, this is going to be so embarrassing. “That’s how many you can have, right?”
That clears the fog from his expressionrealfast. “Who told you that?” Carrson demands.
Not liking the angry edge to his voice, I fire back, “The sisters and don’t get mad at them. They had to tell me sinceyouobviously weren’t going to do it.” I layer the accusation on thick and let it hang there between us.
“Why would I?” He takes a big step back and scowls.
For a minute, I miss the pressure, the warmth, of his body on mine.
“I wasn’t planning on bondinganywomen, let alone three.” His voice rises, harsh with anger and frustration. “That is, untilyoucame along and I had to save your ass.”
“Yeah, right.” My anger spikes, rising to meet his. “You mean until Daddy forces you. Then you’ll bond as many as you’re told, like a good little boy.”
Carrson rears back like I just slapped him.
“Why do you even care, Laurel?” he hisses, his eyes narrowing into slits. “You won’t be around to see how many I do or don’t bond. You’re counting down the days until you can get out of here. Can’t wait to leave me.”
A trickle of blood slides down his cheek and soaks the collar of his white shirt, staining it pink.
“What the hell?” I hop off the table and step closer. “Carrson, what happened?”
