Page 117 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

She sucked harder, hollowing her cheeks, using her fingers to grip the shaft. He groaned, rumbled a choked “fuck” like a prayer. To her. It made her wetter, made her quim feel swollen, pulsing deeply. Made her suck harder and deeper until he swore again and pulled her back up. She made a sound of protest. Something about it snapped the last of his restraint, and he growled, pushing her knees open to feast on her.

It was mouth and tongue and teeth, sucking and licking, stroking deeply. It was too much, too much, not gentle or coaxing, and exactly what she wanted. The bite mark had faded from her neck, but she felt it throb regardless. He sucked her bud into his mouth and sucked, sucked, sucked until her back arched and her toes curled and she came so hard and fast she saw stars behind her eyelids.

And then he was pushing into her, claiming the last tremors that spasmed around him. She met him thrust for thrust, lifting her hips, the sounds of their panting and moaning drowning out the river, the wind in the leaves, the crickets in the nearby clearing. She bit his shoulder, right over the swirl of his tattoo, and he came hard, his eyes gold, her name on his lips.

He buried his nose in the crook of her neck and caught his breath, still caging her in with his body. It made her feel both safe and wild. Connected to the earth but filled with the sky. A woman, and a wolf.

He pushed a sweat-tangled curl off her cheek with a wry smile. “One of these days, we’re going to make it to a bed.”

She grinned. “Sounds dreadfully dull.”

They lay there until she shivered and he pulled her up to dry her with his plaid, carefully, tenderly.

And then they stood and stared at each other.

“I can take you back home if you like,” Aidan said, the merriment from the rest of the camp a soft song in the near distance.

“Is that what you want?” Sorcha asked.

“Hell no,” he said, and it was ripped from him, like ivy from a stone wall. Like the weight of it had sat there too long, strangling his chest.

Sorcha went warm where she had been cold. He pulled her into his arms, and she laid her ear against his chest and listened to the comforting beat of his heart. His chest hair tickled her nose. He was warm as a bonfire beating back the winter cold. “It might not be safe yet,” he murmured.

“We’ve got the Collector now,” she reminded him. “It’s never been safer.”

“I might not be safe.”

“Of course you are, Aidan.”

“I’m serious.”

“You usually are,” she replied lightly. “It’s the museum curator in you.”

“You’re not a wolf.”

She wasn’t sure why that offended her, but it did. “I would make a sensational wolf.”

“I agree.”

“Oh. Well, good.” She was only partly mollified. A toad croaked from the river in sympathy. “And I’m the Red Cloak.”

Or she had been. What an odd but pleasant thought. The Red Cloak would not be needed anymore. But he was still correct, much as she hated to admit it. She wasn’t a wolf. Her hand stilled where she had been dragging her fingertips over his thick muscles without realizing it. “I suppose we can call off our betrothal now.” She swallowed. “If that’s what you want.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s what we agreed to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Why do I have to say it first?” she grumbled.

“Because you’re braver than I am.” His arms were tight around her.

And because he always wanted her to have the choice. Never to be trapped the way he had been. Oh, but this kind of bravery was difficult. She would rather face a hundred unicorns. Or Granny in a snit.

Mind, it would be so much worse if he returned to London, to his museum and his self-flagellation, without her. What if he only returned once a year for some festival or another and they greeted each other politely in the middle of the street like acquaintances? She would have to shove him headfirst into the sea.

Or what if he never returned at all?