Page 30 of Bound to the Griffin (Hillcrest Hollow Shifters #3)

Gwendolyn

By the time the sun went down, the storm had taken over everything.

The windows rattled in their panes, icy gusts clawed against the walls, and the wind shrieked over the roof like a banshee who had had too much sugar.

The whole town was swallowed in darkness, shutters closed, doors locked. Even the streetlamps seemed to cower.

Evan, of course, hadn’t said a word about the storm.

No, he’d wasted all his energy at dinner, griping about every last bite—too bland, too greasy, too small-town, blah blah blah.

He was mid-sentence about how even Chicago diners knew how to plate food properly when Jackson set his fork down with a sharp clink and told him, in a voice that could freeze water, that the next complaint would have him tossed headfirst into the snow.

For once in his life, Evan shut up. It was very satisfying to see his mouth grow tight, his shoulders going back like a boxer preparing for a strike.

Yet, even with all that fighting energy, he did not say a thing.

He eyed Jackson like he had swallowed a bag of lemons, but he seemed to know he would not win this fight.

He’d be right. Evan was in shape and tall, he’d been a star quarterback in high school, and he liked to remind people that he could have gone pro.

Jackson and he were of equal height, but Jackson carried a lethality that came from seeing real combat.

He was a veteran, after all, and beneath his skin, a beast simmered—one my ex might not have known about, but sensed anyway.

The spoiled bastard retreated from the room as soon as he’d scraped the last bite of dinner from his plate.

It must not have been too bad after all, as he’d finished every bit of it.

When the dishes were cleared and the locks slid home on the doors, Jackson went up to the room where I’d put Evan to give him his number in case of emergency.

I could hear him coldly telling my ex to stay put.

“Storm’ll eat you alive if you set foot outside,” he said, and I didn’t doubt it for a second.

It sounded absolutely crazy outside, and I didn’t relish the thought of crossing the three hundred or so yards to get to his cabin.

We braced ourselves against the gale, Jackson tucking me against his side as we stepped out into the chaos.

The cold hit first—knife-edged and biting—but then his jacket came around my shoulders, heavy and warm, smelling faintly of pine and smoke.

His arm drew me close, broad and solid, and I thought that was shelter enough.

Then, suddenly, it wasn’t an arm anymore; something soft and strong curved around me, cocooning me from the storm.

I looked down and saw the sweep of feathers, gold and cream, blocking the wind, wrapping me in warmth.

A wing. His wing. I should have been shocked, maybe I was, but mostly, I just felt…

safe. Safer than I had in a long, long time.

We crossed Main Street together, snow drifting in deceptively lazy curls despite the fierce whipping of the wind, and headed down the narrow alley beside the General Store. The storm howled, but I barely felt it under his wing.

Still, I couldn’t help glancing back at my B I’d done this every evening for days now.

The chipped tin canister of loose-leaf tea, the dented kettle, the tiny rituals of belonging.

I measured out the leaves, my hands steady, though my mind was anything but.

Because in this house, in his bed, my dreams had changed.

Gone were the shadows and fear that had clung to me in my own home.

Here, it was always him. His griffin, wings outstretched, as we flew together through an endless sky.

When the dream darkened into something hotter, it was him again: wild, untamed, pressing me into the forest floor with a hunger that stole my breath.

Every night, it blurred into something primal, something that felt like it was ours, not just my imagination.

Heat rose to my cheeks just remembering.

I bent over the kettle, pretending to fuss with the water as if I could hide the blush from him.

Except he was already there, pressing in behind me, his chest warm against my back, his voice low and rough by my ear.

“Forget the tea,” he murmured. “I want you. Now.”

The words struck like lightning, every nerve in me sparking awake.

His hands slid down my arms—claiming, reverent—as though he’d been starving and I was the feast. “I’ve been dying to stake my claim,” he whispered, nipping the curve of my neck with soft lips and blunt teeth.

“Ever since that kiss on your porch. Watching your ex watch us. I wanted him to know you’re mine. ”

The kettle slipped from my fingers onto the counter with a hollow clatter.

His hands were already on the hem of my sweater, tugging it upward, and I lifted my arms without thought.

The air was cool, but his gaze—hungry, adoring, fierce—burned hotter than the fire.

He stripped me bare, piece by piece, every touch lingering, every inch of skin worshipped.

When he lifted me into his arms and carried me to the couch, I felt less like a woman being undressed and more like something sacred being unveiled.

His mouth found mine, and then everything blurred, heat, rhythm, the fire’s crackle, the storm’s howl outside.

That kiss drew out, long, wild, and passionate.

It was a reminder of that claim he’d staked in front of Evan, and it sent thrill after sharp lance of pleasure through my veins.

I could not recall ever being with a man who so blatantly wanted to show everyone, especially unpleasant ex-fiancés, that I was his.

I arched into his touch when he stroked my belly, the curve of my ribs, right through the fabric of my long-sleeved thermal shirt.

It peeled off me slowly, crackling with static as it slid over my hair.

Then Jackson distracted me from the tangle of fabric around my wrists by dipping down to lick along the edges of my lacy bra.

“So pretty, like a present waiting for me to unwrap,” he murmured.

He slipped the bra off, and it too tangled somewhere above my head, around my arms. I thought he might free me, but he studied the knot for a moment with that half-grin.

Smug, satisfied; his eyes gleamed with fire, not merely a reflection from the flames in the hearth.

Then his mouth was on me, teasing my breasts, the taut nipples.

I moaned, thrashing beneath him, my head tossing as the sensations almost became too much.

I might have begged him, asked him for what?

I was beyond words with just a few simple touches.

He took mercy on me just as I felt I was hovering at the edge of a precipice.

Or maybe it wasn’t mercy, maybe he was teasing me even more.

Rising above me, I could see from his face that he knew exactly what he’d done, what state he’d left me in.

I couldn’t complain when he rose from the couch and began unbuttoning his uniform.

The belt thudded heavily on his worn coffee table, his boots disappearing beneath it.

Then his hands dropped to his waistband, and my breath stalled in my chest as he flicked open the top button.

There he stopped, eyes flicking to mine, a smile curling at his mouth—one that held all kinds of sensual promises.

“Your turn,” he said, and he bent down to slide my pants from my hips.

I felt the brush of his calloused fingers along every inch of flesh he slowly exposed.

It was foreplay, and it was working. I wanted him so badly, needed him to remind me that I was with a good guy now, the right guy.

I wanted him to make me forget Evan ever existed.

When he spread my thighs and pressed his face between them, he did exactly that.

There was only him and me then, and each hot flick of his tongue and mouth against my most sensitive flesh.

The brush of his fingers into my core, curling just right until stars exploded behind my eyelids, his name tumbling from my lips.

I was so deep into my body, into all the feelings he’d pulled from me, that I barely registered he’d freed his cock—not until the heated, thick tip of him pressed into me.

And then I spiraled all over again, shuddering, clenching, and drawing him in even as my body grew tight.

My pleasure was accompanied by his muffled cursing: “Fuck, so tight, honey. So perfect!”

I struggled against the clothing tangled around my wrists, and finally, Jackson reached down to push it off and free me.

He had not bothered to take off his own pants; I could feel the texture of the fabric press against my thighs.

But his chest was bare, and once freed, I reached up to stroke the smooth planes of muscle, the ridges of his abs, his pecs, the sexy curve of his biceps.

He was beautiful, sweat slicking down his spine in the heat of the fire, his hips pinning me to the couch, pressing into me with firm, precise thrusts.

Every stroke along my G-spot prolonged my orgasm, then blended into the next.

When I clenched down hard, shouting his name, he came with me.

A growl ripped from his chest, his hands clenching the couch so fiercely that the old leather groaned and creaked.

I felt his cock grow thicker, kicking inside of me, and after a last few thrusts, he stilled.

Golden eyes gleamed in his face, brushing heat along my cheeks, my throat, and my bare breasts.

It was perfect. I felt so admired, so beautiful beneath that gaze.

Afterward, he pulled a faded quilt over me, the fabric soft with age, the kind of thing that held stories in its stitching.

He brushed a hand down my hair, tender now, his golden eyes softer in the firelight.

“I’ve got something for you,” he said, and rose, the quilt slipping as my gaze followed him.

God help me, I nearly forgot to breathe.

His body in the firelight was all power and devotion, every line, scar, and muscle a testament to the life he’d lived and the life he was offering me.

He was gorgeous, and he did not even seem to be aware of how much appeal he held in that powerful body of his.

He came back with a small box, setting it gently in my lap.

My fingers trembled as I lifted the lid.

Inside were two delicate teacups, green porcelain patterned with faint feathers, each handle curved into the shape of a wing.

My throat tightened. “Jackson…” They were the exact same shade as the favorite pair that had been shattered by the burglar.

A pair of teacups I’d lamented but had not dared complain about, not out loud. How had he known?

He leaned down, kissing me slowly, as though there were no storm outside, no danger, no past to haunt either of us.

Just this moment. Just us. He couldn’t know how much this gift meant to me, but his mouth, as he kissed me, said that he did.

It was so tender, so reverent, and I knew then and there that I’d lost my heart to him.

To my golden sheriff, the griffin, the wild man who kept his beastly side hidden beneath charm and discipline.

The cups were set aside, safe on the table. Then we were tangled together again beneath the quilt, heat blooming between us, while outside, the wind raged against walls that—like us—refused to break.