Her hand rests over my heart. My own covers it. We lie that way while our breathing slows, and her body learns the strange convergence of being unable to pull away and not wanting to. The bond glows between us, perhaps not visible to her eyes, but unmistakable in her aura. Gold and blue thread at the edges.
The ring vibrates. Damn the emergency bypass.
She lifts her head a fraction. "Is that your ring?"
"Yes. It's just my brothers."
"Are you answering? It might be important."
"It's not. This is." I curve my hands around the arc of her ass and thank every star in the galaxy that earth men are so blind.
Her cheek settles back against my chest. "Good."
For a while, that is all. The knot softens slowly, but the rut does not release me. Her scent deepens after the first claiming, changed by me and still unmistakably hers. It calls to the oldest part of my body, the part that knows a mate must be kept close, warmed, fed, touched, brought to pleasure until fear has no room to live. When I slip free, she makes a sleepy protesting sound. I kiss it from her mouth. Then I taste her again, because she is tender and swollen and mine, because the aphrodisiac in my tongue can soothe as well as arouse, because her thighs part for me even while her eyes stay half-closed.
The second time is slower.
The third is not.
By dawn, she has learned how to stroke my ears until I lose every polished piece of myself. I have learned how her pussy grips harder when my mouth closes around her nipple, how her breath skips before she asks for more, how her body accepts the knot more easily when I hold her hips and feed her my tongue first. The bedroom loses its clean lines. Sheets twist. Pillows fall.
Then the nesting starts.
I do not recognize it until I am already doing it. The bed is wrong. Too flat. Too exposed. My mate needs warmth at her back, softness at her knees, my scent around her. I leave her long enough to forage the room. Thermal blankets. Spare sheets. My shirts. A heavy Layn wrap made for cold transit. I bring all of it to the bed and build around her while she lies naked, sated and watching me with one eyebrow raised.
"Are you making a fort?"
"A nest."
Her eyebrow rises higher. "For me?"
"For us."
She looks at the mound of blankets, then at my very serious hands arranging them. A soft laugh leaves her, worn out and affectionate. "I'm sorry. I know this is probably very meaningful, but you look like a hobo, carrying all of your precious possessions."
"Laugh away. Nothing's more precious than you."
She reaches up with one trembling hand and touches my lower lip. "That was..." She swallows. "Thisisa lot."
"A lot," I repeat. I know what the words mean, and still don’t know her meaning.
"I mean, wow. I'm a writer, and I don't know what to say." Her eyes soften, and the humor fades into a whisper. "I can feel you."
Everything in me goes still. "Yes."
"It's weird." She gives her little half-smile. "Andhot. And terrifying."
"Yes. Yes. And yes."
She frowns faintly. "You're not supposed to agree with all of those."
"I won't lie to my mate."
She stares. Then she laughs. Hard. The sound goes straight through the fresh bond and nearly kills me.
"Beatrice," I warn, voice wrecked.
"I'm sorry." She is absolutely not sorry. Her body shakes again. "It's just once again you leave me wordless. Loora would drop her snacks and tell you I'm never speechless."
