Page 65 of Bear and Order

"If you stop now," she says, dragging me down by the back of my neck, "I will fire you from this inspection personally."

I laugh — a real laugh, rusty with disuse — and then I sink into her, hard and deliberate, watching her face for every flicker of pleasure as her body stretches to take me.

The first thrust drags a sound out of her that's somewhere between my name and a moan, and I drop my forehead to hers, just breathing through how good she feels — tight and slick and shaking around me, her nails biting half-moons into my shoulders.

My own voice groans out, ruined. The bond between us has gone incandescent, a current running through both of us that makes every inch of contact feel less like sensation and more like recognition — two halves of something finally fitting back together.

I start moving faster, but I savor the way her body yields and clenches around mine, the way her breath pauses every time I pull away and out. She meets me on the second stroke, her hips rising in a rhythm that's clumsy at first and then isn't, the two of us finding the same pace like we've done this a hundred times before.

My pace makes me brace one forearm beside her head so I can drive deeper, harder. The headboard knocks against the wall with every thrust. Her moans climb in pitch, my name leaving her every time I hit some spot inside her that makes her whole body go tight and her pussy clench around me. I drop my head to her throat and bite down — gently, just enough pressure to make her tremble, my bear surging close to the surface, demanding satisfaction .

I shift my angle, hook one hand under her knee and press in, and the new depth makes her back arch clean off the mattress, a strangled sound tearing out of her that's pure want. I can feel her getting close — the way her body starts clenching erratically around me, the way her breath stutters into something high and desperate.

I pull her hair and back, prolonging her orgasm, and push her toward my dick. She takes it in her wet mouth, and her eyes rise to me while she does it. Her tongue goes from base to tip, and she uses her hand to glide up and down at the same time. My dick is expanding slowly, I know I’ve just stopped her orgasm but that means we get to go again. Her throat takes my dick so easily and I pull her head away and make her stare at me.

I smile, swing her round and bend her over the bed, thrusting back into her in one hard stroke. She squeals with pleasure, and reach around and circle her clit with one hand, pounding her hard at the same time.

“Come for me.” I whisper.

And she shatters around me with a cry, her whole body clenching so tight it drags me over with her, my own release tearing through me on a groan that's half her name and half something older, something instinctual, something that's been waiting years to finally come home.

I follow her, and don’t move as my come flushes through her, her pussy squeezes my dick, and her walls pulsate with each squirt. Every pulse, every sensation of her come and mine engulfs me, and then I drop to her shoulder and we breathe into each other’s skin.

We lie tangled together afterward, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing slow lines down her spine while our breathing settles.

"So," she says eventually, her voice muffled against my skin. "No promotion."

"No promotion."

"And the mate bond?"

I press a kiss to the top of her head, feeling something settle in my chest that's been restless for as long as I can remember. "Already accepted. Has been for a while now. I was just too stubborn to say it out loud."

"Stubborn." She tips her head up, smiling against my jaw. "That's rich, coming from the man who fought a building inspection in his own head for two months."

"I had good reasons."

"Did you?"

"None of them held up," I admit, "once I actually looked at you."

She settles back against me with a soft, contented sigh, and I lie there listening to the fire crackle in the other room, to the wind moving through the pines outside, to the steady, impossible fact of her heartbeat against my ribs — and understand, finally and completely, that I'm not passing through Maple Hollow anymore.

I'm home.

29

JUNIPER

The Blossom Festival usually feels magical. The entire town comes alive — flowers lining the streets, market stalls filling every available corner, musicians performing near the square, children running between booths carrying treats bigger than their heads. Normally this is my favorite event of the year. Normally Sweetbell Bakery would be buried beneath orders and I'd be too busy to think about anything except which batch to pull from the oven next.

Today, I notice every stare. Every whisper. Every conversation that stops when I get too close.

The festival continues around me, bright and colorful and determinedly cheerful, yet something underneath feels strained, like the whole town is collectively holding its breath, waiting for something they haven't named yet. I stand behind Sweetbell's festival booth adjusting a display of cupcakes that don't need adjusting, keeping my hands occupied because the alternative is standing here doing nothing while people look at me like a headline.

A customer approaches and hope rises immediately. The woman smiles politely, then notices who I am, and the smile falters. A moment later she walks away. My hand tightens around the tray.

Not again. Not today. Not during the festival.