Page 19 of Branded

The contrast is jarring. This man, who wears tailored suits and runs a luxury resort empire, who moves in circles with politicians and celebrities, looks like he should be running a motorcycle club or doing time.

Then there are the scars. A long, pale line across his left ribs that looks surgical. Smaller ones on his knuckles, fighting, probably. Another on his collarbone that might be from barbed wire or a knife, hard to tell.

He is beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

And now he is watching me catalog every inch of him with dark amusement in his eyes.

I jerk away instinctively, my body protesting the sudden movement. I can feel the deep soreness between my thighs, aching muscles, the sting of skin that was gripped, bitten, marked. Everything from last night comes rushing back in vivid, humiliating, insanely sexy detail.

His mouth on me. His hands pinning me down forcefully but gentle at the same time. His tattooed arms caging me against the window. I screamed his name and told him I’m his. God, I hate him, but every cell in my body aches to have him claim me again.

“Good morning, wife,” Sebastian says, his voice rough with sleep but amused. His eyes, dark brown, almost black in this light, track over me slowly, possessively, like he’s cataloging every inch of exposed skin the same way I just did him.

I grab the sheet and pull it up to cover myself, suddenly aware I’m completely naked.

“Don’t cover up on my account.” He reaches out and tugs the sheet back down, exposing my breasts. His long fingers, scarred knuckles, short nails, trail across my collarbone, down between my breasts, casual and proprietary. “I’ve already seen everything. I’ve tasted everything. Owned everything.”

I slap his hand away and sit up. The sheet falls to my waist, but I don’t care any more. Modesty suddenly seems pointless after what we did in this room last night, or this morning, I lost track of time.

“When did you come to bed?” My voice comes out raw. I screamed too much. After round two, he got up, but I was too tired to care what time he returned.

“Around four.” He stretches lazily, the movement making his muscles shift beneath tattooed skin. The sheet slips lower, revealing the cut of his hip bones, more dark hair, the continuation of whatever design covers his hip. “You were dead asleep. I almost woke you up for another round, but I figured you’d earned a few hours of rest.”

I look past him to the windows framing the Pacific Ocean in the early morning light. Gray sky meeting gray water, waves crashing against rocks I can’t see but can hear as a constant, rhythmic thunder. The modern, minimalist clock on the nightstand reads 7:03 a.m.

Ten o’clock looms in my mind. It’s when we are meeting Margaret for my examination.

The thought hits me like a bucket of cold water. Margaret’s clinical voice in that leather chair study: You must consummate the wedding tonight. I meet with all the couples tomorrow morning and make sure the night happened.

And Sebastian’s eerily calm response: You’re marked. Margaret will check.

My hands move to my neck automatically, fingers finding the raised skin where he bit me hard enough to break the surface. Then to my hips, pressing gently and wincing at the tender spots his fingers left, bruises, definitely bruises, probably in the perfect shape of his grip. My wrists are ringed with red marks from where he pinned them above my head.

Evidence. All of it is evidence that he fucked me, claimed me, consummated our marriage per the contract terms.

And in less than three hours, I have to let some random doctor examine me to verify it.

“I need to shower,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

“You showered last night.” Sebastian’s hand finds my bare thigh under what remains of the sheet. His palm is hot against my skin. Callused. I didn’t expect that, didn’t notice it last night. I thought men like him had soft hands from pushing papers and signing checks. But his palm is rough, scarred, the hand of someone who’s done real work not that long ago. “For almost an hour. I could hear the water running.”

I’d scrubbed myself clean, standing under scalding water until my skin turned lobster red, trying to wash away the feel of his hands, his mouth, his cock. Trying to erase the memory of how much I’d wanted him, how I’d come for him so many times I lost count, how I’d told him I’m his because he demanded it. But it wasn’t a stretch, because that man is going to be my undoing, with his amazing body, talented tongue and fucking magic cock.

“I need another one.” I move to get out of bed, swinging my legs over the side, but his hand tightens on my thigh, holding me in place. “Not yet.” He pulls me back down with unsurprising strength, and before I can protest, he is on top of me, his weight pinning me to the mattress. All that heavily muscled bulk crushing me into expensive sheets that smell like sex and him. His morning erection, hard and insistent, presses against my hip through the thin barrier of the sheet. “We have three hours before we need to leave. That’s plenty of time.”

“No.” I shove at his chest. I can’t do this again. Not yet. “Sebastian.”

“Relax.” He catches my wrists easily, holding them above my head with one hand. Those long fingers wrap around both my wrists, the barbed wire ink seeming to extend from his skin onto mine. “I won’t fuck you, not right now, anyway. Your pussy needs time to recover.” His free hand slides down my body, possessive and slow, calloused palm scraping against my skin. “But there are other ways to remind you who you belong to.”

“I don’t really think it’s possible to forget.”

He kisses me, hard and demanding, swallowing my protest. His tongue slides into my mouth open, tasting me thoroughly. His chest hair scrapes against my breasts as he presses closer, and immediately I know I want more of him.

His hand, that rough, scarred hand, finds the apex of my thighs. He nudges them apart with his knee, settling more heavily between them, the full weight of his muscled frame keeping me pinned and spread.

“Still swollen,” he murmurs against my lips, his fingers exploring gently now, almost clinical, and I gasp at his touch. Testing. Assessing. “Good. You’ll feel me all day.”

He pulls back and looks down at me, his dark eyes full of satisfaction. “But you’re right. We should save your energy for later. I want you again after we meet with Margaret.”