TWENTY-NINE
JASPER
Her mouth on mine is all the answer I need—all the permission I’lleverneed.
I was certain we’d lost her forever after her father dragged her back into his gilded cage. Clark Black had put his precious daughter on a leash, and I thought we’d never get the chance to show her she belongs with us.
But now she’s here. She’shere. Mara climbed out of her prison and ran straight into our arms of her own volition.
I break the kiss just long enough to catch her breath in my hand. Her lips are swollen, eyes wide, and I can feel Talon’s grin and Dredyn’s scowl like heat at my back. They’ll talk, they’ll argue, they’ll stake their claims. But not tonight. Not for this.
I lace my fingers through hers and tug. She stumbles half a step, confused. I let a slow smile curl over my mouth and press a kiss to the tips of her fingers, one by one, mocking courtly, but my eyes don’t leave hers.
Her breath shudders.
Then I turn and pull her with me, decisive. Down the hall. Away from their eyes.
“Bedroom,”I sign quickly with one free hand, a flash of motion only she catches. My grin widens. No hesitation. No nerves.
Behind us, I hear Talon’s low chuckle and Dredyn’s sharp exhale, but neither follows. They know. This is mine to begin.
The door gives under my shoulder and swings open. The room is dim, lit by a single lamp that spills gold over a broad king bed.
I guide her inside, shutting out the others. Shutting out everything but the thrum of her pulse against my palm.
Tonight, she’s not the senator’s daughter, not a pawn, not a prisoner. Tonight, she’s ours. And she’s minefirst.
The room is dimly lit by a single lamp on the nightstand, casting a golden glow over a large king-sized bed with a dark grey comforter. It’s not lavishly decorated—no personal touches, just neutral tones; a functional masculine space—but the sheets are clean, soft-looking.
I hook my fingers into the hem of her hoodie.“May I?”I sign with my other hand, then nod toward the sweater.
Mara swallows and then lifts her arms slightly in a gesture of consent. Her teeth catch her bottom lip—already swollen from our kiss—and she nods. “Yes,” she breathes.
Carefully, I peel the hoodie up and over her head. She raises her arms to help, and I pull it off. Underneath, she’s in a simple tank top, the strap of a bra visible where the fabric rides down the slope of her shoulder.
Her arms come down, instinctively moving to cover herself, but I catch her wrists gently. I shake my head once, trying to tell her silently,“Don’t hide.”Holding both of her delicate wrists in my hands, I raise them above her head. I guide her palms until they press flat against the wall behind her, pinning her there lightly. Her chest heaves and her eyes flash with surprise at the motion.
I pause, searching her face for any sign of panic. But Maradoesn’t look frightened. If anything, her cheeks flush deeper and her lips part in a soft pant.
She’s excited.
She likes when I take control. My cock swells at the realization.
“Breathe,” I whisper against her skin before I even realize I’ve spoken aloud. It’s the first word I’ve said since I spoke to her in the house before I kissed her. My voice is husky from disuse, barely more than a rumble.
I release her hands, trusting she’ll keep them there for now, and trail my fingertips down the length of her arms slowly—goose bumps rise under my touch. I continue down her sides, skimming over her waist and the flare of her hips. Mara inhales sharply, her stomach tensing.
I shift my weight and let my knees hit the floor. “It’s okay,” I murmur. Her eyes flare wide—she isn’t used to me talking. No one is. And that’s how I like it. The second my knees touch, she reaches for me, fingers drifting from the wall as if pulled by gravity, then stopping, remembering my touch that put them there.
My palms settle on the denim of her jeans, right at the curve of her thighs. I slide my hands up until the waistband is under my fingers. She watches me the whole time, breath hitching. When our eyes lock she gives me a tiny, fierce nod. “I’m okay,” she whispers.
I press a kiss to the soft line where jeans meet skin, over the fabric, then lift the waistband with two fingers and start to work the button free. When the denim loosens I ease the jeans down over the swell of her hips, feeling the heat through cotton as they slip past the soft curve of her hip bones.
She lifts one foot to help me, steadying herself with both hands on my shoulders. The trust in that small motion is almost unbearable. I peel the jeans down until they puddle around her ankles, then slide them off. Her underwear is there—simple, black—and for the briefest second I watch, memorizing the smallness of it, the way it clings to her.
My thumbs hook under the elastic and I slow, giving her the last second to change her mind. She doesn’t. Instead, her fingers tighten once on my shoulders, grounding me, and she leans down just enough to whisper, “Do it.”
It’s all the permission I need.
