Page 56 of Easy, Tiger

She tilts her head, giving me better access, though she laughs softly. "You've been doing that a lot lately. Rubbing your jaw against my neck and wrists. Is it a tiger thing?"

"It is," I breathe against her skin, pressing a kiss there. "Tiger shifters have scent glands along our jaws and cheeks. When I rub against your pulse points, I'm scent-marking you. Leaving my scent on you so deep that any other predator or shifter will immediately know you're mine. We call it the scent-lock. It's a fierce, territorial lock that anchors our bond."

She inhales sharply, but she doesn't pull away. Instead, she arches into the touch. "Then mark me. I want them all to know."

Her response sends a jolt of pure heat straight to my groin. Outside, wind rattles the windows, bearing the promise of winter storms. But here, with Halsey in my arms and a future stretching ahead of us, the coming cold feels less like an ending and more like the beginning of something I never dared hope for.

The firelight catches the determination in Halsey’s eyes as she hunches forward, her fingers curling into my flannel shirt. "You know, I choose you too, Nolan. Every version of you." Her voice fades to a whisper against my lips. "Human, tiger, grumpy woodworker at dawn..."

"Grumpy?" My protest gets swallowed by her kiss—profound and possessive, tasting of shared coffee. Her hands slide into my hair, coaxing me closer until the world narrows to the heat of her mouth, her sharp intake of breath when my tongue meets hers.

"I love you," she murmurs against my lips, the words vibrating through my chest.

"Love you more." Standing, I lace my fingers through hers and lead her toward the bedroom. She laughs, breathless, following me into the dark.

"Show-off," she teases, nipping my earlobe.

"Complaining?"

"Not even a little."

Laying her down on the quilt, moonlight joins firelight across her skin. My hands tremble as I undo the buttons of the oversized navy-blue flannel she stole from me, unveiling the warm brown skin beneath. Each inch exposed feels like unwrapping something sacred. I glide my lips to the freckles scattered along her collarbone, then lower, feathering over the curve of her breast through her thin cotton camisole. Her back arches off the bed.

"So patient," she breathes, fingers threading through my hair. "Always watching."

"Always wanting." Peeling the camisole up slowly, I kiss each new expanse of skin—the dip of her navel, the soft swell of her hip. Her jeans follow, discarded beside the bed until she’s bare before me, bathed in gold and silver light. Kneeling between her legs, I drink her in: the lean muscle of her thighs and the flutter of her pulse at her throat. A sharp gasp slips past her lips when my thumb brushes her inner knee, the faint, yellowing bruise on her ribs from her fall stark against the firelight.

"You're looking at me like you're starving." A blush spreads down her chest.

"I am," my palm skims up her calf and thigh. "And I plan on taking my time."

Her hand catches mine, guiding it higher. "Your turn."

She sits up, fingers working the buttons of my shirt slow and unhurried, drawing the moment out on purpose. Her knuckles brush my shoulder’s scar—a reminder of the creek, of her courage—and she pauses, grazing her lips on the raised skin. "My brave tiger."

The shirt falls away. Her palms slide over my chest, exploring the ridges of muscle and the dusting of blond hair. My belt buckle clinks open under her touch. She strips my jeans down my hips, her breath warm against my stomach. "Better," she hums, her tongue swiping along the line of my hip bone.

Skin to skin now, we sink back onto the quilt. Her hands roam my back, kneading the tension in my shoulders, following the dip of my spine. Mine map the landscape of her, the curve of her waist giving way to the swell of her breast, sliding lower. I can't resist the primal urge surging through my blood. Resting my cheek on her bare stomach, I drag my jawline heavily across her skin to leave my scent there, dropping a kiss to her inner thigh before transferring my weight and sliding back up her body.

"You're awfully quiet," she whispers, hooking one leg over my hip to pull us flush.

"Just taking you in." I brace myself above her, brushing a damp curl from her forehead. "Every single inch."

Her hand slips between us, wrapping around my length and stroking slowly. "Maybe I should add this to my sketchbook."

A groan tears from my throat. "Halsey⁠—"

"Shh." Her thumb swipes over the tip. "A good illustrator always studies the anatomy up close."

My own hand finds her wet heat, fingers circling, dipping. Her hips lift, seeking. "Nolan⁠—"

"Then pay close attention." Kissing her, I swallow her gasp as my fingers slide deeper. "Let's make sure you capture every detail."

Outside, the wind rattles the pines. Inside, there’s only breath and touch and the silent promise in every stroke: whatever comes, we face it like this, skin to skin, choosing each other again and again.

Her fingers tighten around my throbbing cock, stroking slowly, drawing out slick heat with every upward pull. I savor her face—the parted lips, the flutter of eyelids—as I slide two fingers deep inside her, curling against that spot that makes her gasp. Her hips lift off the quilt, seeking more.

She arches, a soft cry escaping as my thumb circles her clit. "Nolan⁠—"