Page 31 of Trusting Her Mate

“Agreed.”

“And I want you to kiss me. Not for the pack. Not for Ashstone. For us.”

The last wall falls and he kisses me.

Not like the pack hall. Not controlled. Not careful. This is Boone stripped bare, his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that steals my breath. His hand slides from my jaw into my hair, fingers tangling, tilting my head back. I gasp against his lips, and he takes the opening, deepening the kiss until I taste him—pine, smoke, heat, and something darker. Something that tastes like mine.

The bond ignites.

Not a spark. A goddamned inferno. Heat rushes through me, blinding, annihilating. I feel him, not just his mouth and hands, but the core of him. The loneliness. The tenderness he hides beneath all the damn rules. The want he’s been choking down since the gate.

My wolf surges to meet his, and the collision shatters something open inside me.

I grab his shirt and pull. He makes a sound, low, guttural, and desperate, and his hand finds my waist, fingers digging into the curve of my hip. Hard enough to claim.

I shove at his chest and his back hits the wall. He groans, and the vibration rolls through my chest.

“You piss me off,” I snarl against his mouth.

His hands catch my wrists, eyes blazing gold. “And you drive me insane.”

“You lied.”

“You make me lose control.”

We’re chest to chest, breath to breath. The argument is the foreplay. The bond is wildfire.

I crash my mouth to his. He kisses me back with teeth and tongue and a desperation that borders on violence. His hands tangle in my hair. My nails rake over his shoulders, his back, anywhere I can reach. I want marks. I want proof.

He lifts me onto the kitchen table and the dishes rattle. My thighs fall open for him, and he presses between them, hard and hot even through denim. I drag his shirt over his head and drink in every inch of bare skin. The scars. The muscle. The man who’s mine.

“Tell me you want this,” he growls.

“I want you. All of it. Now.”

He peels away my clothes, his mouth tracing the path down my neck, between my breasts, over my stomach. I’m shaking, frustration, anticipation, and need so sharp it hurts. I pull at his belt, and he helps, shoving jeans down just enough. When he grinds against me, I gasp, the friction nearly undoing me.

He pauses and meets my gaze. “You sure?”

“If you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll bite you myself.”

His laugh is broken and hungry. He thrusts into me in one hard, perfect stroke. My head falls back, a moan tearing out of me. Relief. Release. Possession. He sets a rhythm, deep and rough and relentless, every thrust a challenge and a promise.

We argue and we fuck at the same time, words and bodies tangled, sweat and curses, nails and teeth. I claw at his back, bite his shoulder, whisper things that make his eyes go wild.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice cracked open.

“I’m yours.”

He slows. His hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just holding. His thumb presses against my pulse. “Beg for it.”

“Please.” The word rips out of me. “Bite me. Make it real.”

His arms go rigid. He searches my face, eyes burning gold. “You’re sure? This can’t be undone, Wren.”

I slide my hands up his chest and tilt my head back, baring my throat. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

A growl rumbles out of him. He lowers his head, mouth tracing the line of my neck, tongue flicking over the place where skin meets pulse. I shudder, caught between anticipation and want so deep it’s almost pain.