Page 139 of The Werewolf’s Wrong Mate

“Don’t.”

He stopped.

I crossed the few feet between us with all the grace of a woman recovering from supernatural assault and a very badly timed emotional crisis. My legs shook. My shoulder throbbed. The mark pulsed with every step, not hurting, not helping, simply awake.

Ian stayed motionless. He looked at me as if I were walking toward the edge of a cliff and he was not allowed to move it.

I stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the heat from his body and see the gold held deep in his eyes. Close enough that the difference in our size became a fact my body cataloged with alarming interest.

“Ian.”

His name felt different from this close.

His voice came rough. “Cassie.”

I lifted my good hand and set it against his chest.

His heart hit hard beneath my palm.

“There,” I said.

His throat moved. “There what?”

“That’s yours.”

His eyes searched mine.

“Your heart,” I said. “I can feel it under my hand. Not through the mark. Not as wolf magic. Yours.”

He didn’t breathe.

I moved his hand to the center of my chest with my other hand.

“And this is mine,” I said, though I was not sure whether I meant my hand, my choice, or the heat moving through me because I was close enough to touch him. “I know the difference.”

His hand lifted, then stopped halfway.

“May I?” he asked.

The question was barely sound.

“Yes.”

His hand covered mine, holding it there over his heart. The bond went warm and deep, and I felt his relief first. Then his want. Then mine answering it. The two feelings and it frightened me, but it didn’t make me step back.

Ian’s thumb moved once over my knuckles. I should not have felt that everywhere.

I did.

His gaze dropped to my mouth. This time, I saw it. This time, he let me see it before he dragged his eyes back to mine.

I rose onto my toes and kissed him. It was not graceful or planned. It hurt my shoulder, and I didn’t care.

For one terrible second, Ian didn’t move.

Then his control broke in one clean line. He finally kissed me back. His hand came to my waist, careful even then, avoiding every hurt place he knew about. His other hand slid into my hair and held the back of my head as if I were something precious and dangerous at once. The kiss was nothing like Grant. That thought flashed through me, unwanted and immediate, then vanished because there was no room for Grant here.

Ian kissed like he had been starving and had decided starvation was still safer than taking too much. His mouth was hot, controlled, rough only when I pushed closer. When I made a sound, his whole body answered it. The bond flared, heat rolling through both of us so fast I could not tell where I ended.