Page 22 of Broken Arranged Mate (Badlands Wolves #4)

When the reception is over, Oren and I walk to the vintage baby-blue car stationed at the end of the walk, and our friends and family throw flower petals over us, which drift down in an impossibly soft haze of colorful confetti.

Oren opens my door, tucks my dress in at my feet, and slides into the driver’s.

“This was my great-grandfather’s car,” he says, flashing me a surprisingly boyish grin. “Let’s hope it still works.”

It roars to life, and a cheer follows us as we peel off down the road.

When I turn and look at him, it hits me—the man in the seat next to me is my husband . I’m married now. To Oren Blacklock.

“It’s not much,” he says, glancing at me. “But I thought we could go back to the house I showed you before.”

“Not much?” I laugh, giving him an incredulous look, remembering walking through there. The place had so much potential, and I could immediately picture myself making it my own. “I loved it, Oren.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t quite believe me.. “You…did?”

“Of course.” I shift in my wedding dress, the layers of tulle rustling around me. What in the world did I do that made him think I didn’t like it?

We fall silent and continue our drive up the hill.

I’m flushed and hot, happy from dancing with my friends.

Throughout the reception, I felt Oren’s gaze on me, heavy and certain, and it only made my heart beat a little faster, my skin hot.

Every once in a while, I’d forget about it and lose myself, but then I’d catch a glimpse of him, his head turned toward me even while in a conversation with someone else.

Around us, the Grayhide territory stretches out to the horizon, the dunes rising and falling like slow-motion waves. Oren pushes the car, climbing higher into the distance, up the same beige, cracked structure upon which the house sits.

He stops the car outside the house and climbs out, rounding and opening the door for me before I can even gather the skirts on this dress. I thank him and take his hand to step out, but he surprises me by scooping his arm under me, lifting me up, and holding me—well, bridal style.

“Ash,” he rasps, and on his lips, my name sounds like a prayer as he carries me up the walk and into the house.

At first, I had automatically assumed that we would be consummating the marriage straight away, but after being around him, I started to wonder if he would want us to act that part as well.

But now, with his hands around my body and his purposeful stride into the house, I have a deep, bone-sure sense that Oren is going to touch me tonight.

And it sets every single piece of me on fire.

The moment we walk into the house, he sets me on my feet and puts his hands on me, first to my hips, to press me against the wall, then to my stomach, then to the neckline of my dress.

It’s almost like he’s a different man as he growls into my ear, “Do you know what the sight of you in this dress has been doing to me, Ash?”

He splays his hand over my back, those long, strong fingers supporting me, and I feel like the female lead in one of those old movies, like all the strength has left my body, and he’s the only thing holding me up.

When his lips meet mine—this time not in front of an entire room of my family and friends—I push back against him, showing him everything I have. Demonstrating to him that I want him, too.

He growls at the sensation, and the rumble of that noise rolls through me, like the strong beat of my favorite song. When he drops his lips to my neck, to my collarbone, I desperately try to remember why we haven’t been doing this the entire time. What has been stopping it from happening.

Wordlessly, we move through the house, Oren guiding me as we go. Though I’ve only been here the one time, I recognize every hall. I know it’s because I’ve spent enough time imagining it, fantasizing about the life that Oren and I could spend together here.

All the ways I could make this into a home for us.

I hike my skirt up to keep from tripping over it, and Oren takes it as an invitation to bunch it around my hips, pushing me back onto a bed I hadn’t even realized was in the room.

“I need to taste you.”

I hardly register the words before I feel him there between my legs, and I’m suddenly grateful for the white lace panties Emaline insisted I pick out for tonight.

Oren growls again at the sight of them, and for a moment, I picture him ripping them off, tearing them away from my body, but he doesn’t.

Instead, with gentle fingers, he pushes them to the side and lowers his mouth to me.

I arch against the sensation, the noise that comes from my mouth almost animalistic. Then I realize, with a start, that the sound is morphing, changing until I’m forming the shape of his name.

“Oren, Oren.”

He’s nodding, his tongue sure and quick, lapping at me with an abandon that makes me feel ravished, blown apart. Like Oren has pushed over the walls and is getting right to the center of me.

Pleasure starts to coil in my lower belly, and when I look down and see him there, among the skirts and flowers of my dress with the knowledge that even if we aren’t mated , we are married—I come undone.

He keeps the pace, the rhythm, until I’m wrung out and boneless, then he kisses the insides of my thighs and makes his way up my body. I feel warm, loose, and limber as he sits me up, finding the zipper on the back of my dress.

“Ash,” he whispers when he pushes the shoulder down, revealing my bare skin. Kissing the top of one, he says, “You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

The daze recedes slightly, and I pull back from him, bewildered. “What?”

Clearing his throat, Oren puts a bit of distance between us and says, matter-of-factly, “I don’t expect anything from you. If you don’t want to—”

I’m not even going to let him finish that thought.

Reaching for him, I pull him back to me, kissing him deeply, still tasting myself on his tongue.

It’s one of the most erotic things I’ve ever done, and he seems to like it, too, because he continues to push my dress down as we kiss, until he reveals the matching white lace bra.

I know, from looking at myself in the mirror this morning, that you can see my nipples right through the sheer lace.

“ Fuck ,” he rasps, then drops his mouth down and takes one in his mouth, right over the lace. The sensation brings me back to life, banishing the post-orgasm exhaustion and bringing all that zinging desire right back to the surface.

When he pulls his mouth away, he’s pushing the rest of the fabric off my body—the bra, the panties, and taking me in his arms again, but this time with my legs wrapped around his waist.

I’ve had Oren before, but feeling him now, hard against my core, I remember his size, my body craving a return to what I’ve had before.

I can’t help but laugh as we cross the threshold into the bathroom, “Do you just like carrying me, or something?”

“I’m tired of this scent-blocking,” he murmurs, his lips moving languidly against my skin as he sets me down on the bathroom counter. “I just want to smell you.”

Maybe I should tell him that the scent-blocking was slipped into my drink earlier, but I don’t want to stop whatever he’s doing right now.

The counter is cold against my bare ass, but Oren makes quick work of warming me, his lips trailing along my collarbone again, his nose buried in the side of my neck.

There are so many thoughts whirring through my head—about Oren, what he wants, what this means—but I push them away.

This is the only thing in the world I want to focus on right now.