Page 32 of Trusting Her Mate

“Please,” I whisper. “Now.”

He bites.

Not gentle. Not hesitant. His teeth sink into my flesh, and the world narrows to a single, brutal point, pain and ecstasy, terror and triumph, all colliding. The bond ignites, a wildfire racing under my skin. White-hot and blinding. Every nerve ending is screaming. I arch against him, moaning his name, baring my throat further. My wolf howls, a broken, hungry sound that splits me open. My hands clutch at his back, nails raking down his skin, needing to mark him, needing to belong.

His whole body shudders, teeth locked around me. The pleasure crests, waves on waves, unstoppable and overwhelming until I’m nothing but heat and pain and want and him. Boone. Boone. Boone. My mate. My home. My fucking universe.

He releases me, licks the wound, and lifts his head.

“Mine,” he says, voice ragged.

I grin, dizzy and aching and absolutely his. “Yours.”

The bond settles inside my chest. fierce and steady and right. I stay. Not because I have to. Not because a bond or a bite or a destiny demands it. Because I want to.

Because this—him, us, the fire and the fight and the choice—has never felt more like home.

Chapter Ten

Boone

I wake drowning in heat.

Not the fire. Not the quilt. Wren. Straddling me, her thighs caging my hips, her hands splayed over my chest, her hair spilling down to trap us in our own world. The claiming mark on her neck is stark against her skin, and seeing it—my mark, my bite, my mate—hits me so hard my fingers bruise her hips before I’m even fully awake.

“Morning,” she says.

Her voice is sleep-rough, wicked, and she rolls her hips once, slow, deliberate, and dragging pleasure through both of us. I’m already hard inside her, soaked and hot, her slickness coating my cock as she rocks down, taking me deep. Her pussy clenches around me, fluttering, greedy for more. The sight of her, hair wild, lips parted, and cheeks flushed, makes every thought burn away except for the urge to fuck her until she can’t remember her own name.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You started without me,” I manage.

“You were sleeping.” Another roll of her hips and her eyelids flutter. “I got impatient.”

My wolf claws up, wild and starving, and I let him. There’s no reason to hold back. She’s mine. The bond is sealed. The claiming mark on her throat proves it, and the matching scar on my shoulder throbs with every move she makes.

I grip her hips tighter and thrust up.

Her head tips back and the sound she makes, half gasp, half moan, shatters what’s left of my control. I sit up, one arm banding around her waist, the other braced behind me. Her legs lock around my back, the angle shifting, driving me deeper. Her nails dig into my shoulders, sharp and desperate.

“Look at me,” I say.

Her head drops forward. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown, and lips parted. She looks wrecked. Beautiful. Mine.

“Good?” I ask.

“Don’t stop.”

I don’t. I set a slow rhythm, deep and grinding. Every thrust pulls a sound from her that I feel in my bones, echoing through the bond. Pleasure and heat and the razor edge of want curl between us like smoke.

“You feel incredible.” My mouth finds her jaw, her neck, the claiming mark. I run my tongue over it, and she shudders, clenching around me. “So tight. So wet. All mine.”

“All yours,” she breathes.

“Say it again.”

“Yours. I’m yours.”