Page 67 of Born to be Broken

And that voice, the heat of masculine rasps, why could it have not belonged to someone else?

A dexterous thumb exposed her clit, circled it as she mewed and stumbled badly through a musical phrase. When thick fingers penetrated languorous and deep, Claire whined, her breath caught, and it was the Alpha’s name she panted.

“Shepherd.”

The bliss of his fingers slipped away, but in their place he set his member free and gently lifted his mate. He sheathed himself in a slow, deliberate entry. Cock engulfed, the Alpha remained still, set no pace—he only groaned at her ear while Claire instinctively gyrated for her own pleasure.

The heat of his hand returned, plucking at her swollen nub, drawing out whimpers and little stifled cries. Claire no longer knew what she was playing or if it made any sense musically, everything was focused on the building pressure and the comfort of a familiar body. Whatever her hips did, Shepherd’s fingers followed. Though his breath was labored and he badly craved to rear up into that tight, little passage, he let her take what she needed.

It was not long before Claire’s movements grew erratic. At the sound of the Alpha’s desperate moan, she jerked and ground down hard, climaxing so beautifully the world went white.

Shepherd followed on command, drenching her insides in warmth and her favorite scent—something that had become far more gorgeous than the smell of orange blossoms.

Claire didn’t cry. For once she did not chastise herself. She simply sat on his lap with the knot fusing their bodies, felt him still spurting in the lingering minutes of his own release, and began to play Bach again—because she had to survive herself, she had to survive to give Corday his chance no matter how badly the odds were stacked against him. And she would not survive if she could not take the comfort Shepherd offered when she was so close to breaking apart again.

The Alpha growled, contented with each exhale. Nestling closer, he held her tight, and enjoyed Claire’s pseudo-serenity.

He had won. His mate was allowing their bond to soothe her.

“Gimme your foot,” Maryanne barked, shaking a little bottle in her hand with quick jerks of her wrist.

Stuffed full of cake—a huge tiered thing, frosted bird’s egg blue and beautifully decorated, a cake that could feed half of Shepherd’s army… that even after their brutal attack on it could still feed half of Shepherd’s army—the friends lounged and played at girly things.

Smiling, sitting slumped in her chair, Claire picked up one bare foot and stretched it over to set in her friend’s lap. “Why am I not surprised the color you brought is vampy red?”

Maryanne brushed a careful line of paint over Claire’s big toe, smirking. “Too sexy for prudish little Claire?”

“Says the girl who slept with every boy we knew…”

“After I left, did you ever cave in and date that that Seymour guy? He had such a crush on you.”

Claire groaned and rolled her eyes. “Gods no. I had my dad chase him off when he started sniffing around the house.”

Playful eyes glanced up, Maryanne motioning for the other foot. “What about boys in higher academy?”

Claire shook her head. “I was focused on my studies.”

“After academy?”

“Geez, you make me sound so boring!”

“So only Shepherd, huh?” Maryanne pretended to focus on her work, spreading the crimson paint carefully. “That’s kinda too bad. I mean, think about it. If you have only slept with Shepherd you have nothing to compare it to. He could be awful and you would never know. I bet you wish you’d experimented now…”

Laughing so hard it hurt, Claire struggled to say, “Stop antagonizing him!”

“That’s what he gets for eavesdropping on girl talk. There are reasons why women congregate without men… so we can make fun of them.”

Claire was still laughing, green eyes dancing while innocent Maryanne blew on her toes. “What other interesting things do you have in your pockets?”

“Look who wants presents?” the blonde sang, reaching into her coat for a tube of lipstick.

Unscrewing the lid, Maryanne made a face like an artist creating a masterpiece. Claire leaned forward, puckered, and let her stain her lips a rich berry red.

“Well, I’m not going to lie,” Maryanne shrugged, unimpressed. “It’s a little trampy on you, but Shepherd might like it.”

“It’s the same color you’re wearing!” Claire snorted, snatching the tube from Maryanne’s hands. “I had a lipstick like this once, never had a place to wear it.”

“What do you mean place to wear it? You just wear it,” her friend replied, settling back in her chair.