Page 68 of Bought for Blood

I start to move.

I go slow because slow is what I want, and every drag of him inside me hits somewhere deep that the fury against the door never got near. His hands stay on my hips and follow what I do. He lifts to meet me, and I set the pace, and he keeps it.

My hair comes down over my shoulder. He gathers it and puts it back. His knuckles brush my throat on the way, and his fingers stay there a moment on the pulse.

He licks his lips. He wants it. He’s wanted it since I came through that door. But he’s waiting for me to offer.

Something goes through me that has nothing to do with the heat.

I put my hand in his hair. I lean down over him and turn my head and bring my throat to his mouth.

“Take it.”

His teeth go in.

Oh, fuck. Oh—

The flood comes up out of the bite and runs into the heat already climbing, and this time nothing is in its way. No shame to shove it under. It’s just overwhelming, and it goes down to where he’s moving inside me, and the two of them stop being separate things.

I ride him hard. He drinks through it, moaning against my throat with a sound that vibrates in my skin. His hand grips my hip tight enough to leave something in the morning, and I wantthe mark. My other hand finds his shoulder for balance, and my nails go in.

It hits me and keeps hitting, both of us one thing instead of two, over and over until I can’t think straight.

“Bastien— God, Bastien!” comes out of me before I know I’m saying it. Against my throat he makes a sound I’ve never heard out of him before, rough and low, and his hips drive up and stay there while he comes, mouth sealed to my pulse, drinking.

Then it lets us both go. I sag, feeling the tension leaving him as I sink onto his chest.

His mouth stays on my throat until the punctures seal. I stay where I am, collapsed over him, my forehead on the pillow beside his ear.

My wolf lies down inside me and closes her eyes.

He rolls us and pulls me into his side, and I end up with his arm around my back. He’s got sweat on him. Mine. He hasn’t got any of his own, and he isn’t going to. I rest my hand on his chest and find it dry everywhere I’m not touching him.

“You don’t sweat.”

“No.”

“I’ll need a while to get used to that.”

His hand moves once in my hair. I turn my face into his shoulder and keep it there.

“I didn’t know it could be a thing I chose,” I say.

He doesn’t answer. His hand stays where it is, then slides down over my shoulder. His fingers find the inside of my arm and go up the scars from the wrist. He goes over them one after another, and I let him.

“Over a year,” I say. “Twice a day at the end of it.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t got a single mark on you.”

“No.”

“You’ve lived so long, and nothing touched you.”

He’s quiet long enough that I think that’s the end of it. Then, “No.”

I’m asleep before I work out what he meant.