Page 27

I breathe. He rocks his hips gently, and the first ridge slides inside me.

My eyes roll back. Each ridge drags over a spot I didn’t know I had, and I make a sound that would get me thrown out of a library.

“Okay?” he grits out.

“More than okay. Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He works into me inch by inch, slow and patient, every ridge another shock of pleasure until he’s deeper than anyone has ever been, and I’m so full I can barely breathe. Then he starts to move.

It’s slow at first, with long, deep strokes that drag every ridge across that spot inside me. His thumb never leaves my clit, and the hum fills the whole tower. I can feel it in my teeth.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groans into my neck. “So hot. So tight. Mine.”

“Yours,” I gasp. “Harder.”

He gives me harder. The cot creaks. The rain hammers on the windows. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on as he drives into me faster, until I’m right on the edge again and can’t think.

Then I feel it.

At the very base, where he’s thickest, he’s starting to swell. Every time I clench around him, he gets bigger. Every time I moan, he swells even more. It presses against my opening with each thrust, hot and heavy.

“Holt,” I gasp. “You’re…”

“I know.” He sounds stunned. “It’s you. It’s because of you. The closer you get, the more it happens.” His eyes lock onto mine, wide and golden. “It’s never done this before. Not ever. My body knows you, Wren.”

Holt goes rigid. He lifts his hips, holding himself back so only part of him is inside me.

“Holt?”

“Not yet.” His jaw is clenched, and his voice comes out rough. “I’m holding it back. I’ve heard about this. It’s supposed to lock us together. I don’t know enough. I won’t risk it until I do.”

“Okay. Tell me later,” I say. He’s still moving, still circling my clit, and I’m so close.

He puts his mouth right against my ear.

“I want to mark you,” he growls. “I want to paint every inch of your skin so everyone knows you’re mine.”

That’s all it takes. I come so hard my toes curl, and my bandaged leg protests, but I don’t even care. I cry out, and my body clenches around him, again and again.

He pulls out with a groan that sounds painful. He takes himself in his fist, and I watch him stroke himself, rough and fast, his eyes locked on mine.

Then he comes with a roar that rattles the windows, hot and thick across my belly and over the flowers on my thigh.

He reaches down and rubs it into my skin with his palm, slow, over my stomach, my hip, and my flowers. It’s the most possessive thing anyone has ever done to me. I love it. I love it so much I shiver.

His fingers trail lower. He gathers what’s left on my thigh and slides two fingers back inside me, pushing it deep.

I squirm and whimper. I’m so sensitive I can barely stand it.

“Mine,” he says softly.

“Yours,” I whisper back.

Afterward, we squish together on the narrow cot, laughing, panting, and tangled up in each other. I’m half on top of him because there’s nowhere else to fit. His chest is still humming, softer now, like a cat purring.

“Your cot is too small,” I tell him.

“It was made for one person.”