“Flannel,” she gasped. “You wear flannel now. There are so many buttons.”
He solved the problem by ripping the shirt open. Buttons scattered across the hardwood floor. Her laugh turned into a moan as he pressed her back against the door, mouth finding the sensitive spot beneath her ear.
“Cal—” Her fingers dug into his shoulders. “Bed.”
He lifted her without breaking the kiss, carrying her through the cabin to the bedroom he’d prepared that morning. Clean sheets. Candles. A fire crackling in the hearth. He’d wanted it to be perfect for her.
He laid her on the bed and stepped back to look at her—really look. Her dress had slipped from one shoulder. Her hair was half-undone, wildflowers scattered on the pillow. Her eyes were dark with want, her lips swollen from his kisses.
His bear made a sound of pure contentment.Mate. Beautiful mate. Ours.
“You’re staring.” Her voice was husky.
“I’m memorizing.” He reached for the hem of her dress, drawing it slowly upward. “This moment. You. The way you look right now.”
The dress came away, revealing the body he’d learned so well in the weeks since they’d first made love. The curves he could map blindfolded. The scars—Magnus’s scars—that crossed her torso like accusations.
Cal leaned down and pressed his lips to the topmost scar, below her collarbone. She shivered.
“These,” he breathed the words against her skin, “tell a story of your courage. Of how you stood up for me, for us, for this town.” He kissed lower, following the raised line across her skin. “But tonight, I’m going to give you different marks. Ones you chose. Ones that mean you’re mine.”
“Yes.” The word came out breathless. “Yes, I want that. I want you.”
FIFTY-FOUR
DAHLIA
Cal took his time.
He removed the rest of her clothes, piece by piece, following each revealed inch of skin with his mouth. Her bra—kissing the swell of her breasts until she was arching into him, his name falling from her lips in breathless whispers. Her underwear—dragging it down her legs with agonizing slowness, his breath hot against her inner thigh, his teeth grazing sensitive skin.
By the time she was naked beneath him, Dahlia trembled. Not with cold—the fire kept the room comfortable, casting flickering shadows across the walls—but with need. With the desperate ache of wanting him inside her.
“Cal.” His name was a plea, a prayer. “Please.”
He shed his own clothes—what remained of them after she’d torn at the buttons—and she drank in the sight of him. The broad shoulders that had held her while she cried. The muscled torso she’d pressed her face against on too many sleepless nights. The scars from his fight with Magnus, healing now to pale lines that matched her own.
He was beautiful in a rough-hewn way, a man built for power and protection. And he was hers. Finally, completely, officially hers.
When he positioned himself between her thighs, she opened for him instinctively. Her hands found his shoulders, pulling him down, needing his solid presence against her.
“Look at me.” His voice was rough, commanding. “I want to see your eyes when I claim you.”
She met his gaze—held it—as he positioned himself at her entrance. His jaw was tight with restraint, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.
“I love you.” The words barely carried.
He pushed inside her. Slowly. Reverently. Inch by inch, until he was fully seated, and Dahlia’s mind dissolved into pure sensation.
Full. She was so full of him—stretched and claimed and perfectly, devastatingly possessed. His forehead dropped to hers, both of them breathing hard, adjusting to the intensity.
“You feel—” His voice broke. “God, Dahlia. You feel perfect.”
He moved. Long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive nerve, that made her feel him everywhere. Dahlia’s head fell back, her nails raking down his back. The pleasure built in waves—each thrust pushing her higher, each withdrawal leaving her desperate for more.
This was different from before. The first time they’d made love, it had been desperate—two people clinging to each other before an uncertain battle. This was deliberate. Sacred. The claiming they’d been building toward since the very beginning.
“More,” she gasped. “Cal—more?—”
