Page 13 of Fetch Me A Mate (Shifter Mates of Hollow Oak #1)

DIANA

O utside, the storm raged on, but inside the circle of firelight, everything had gone perfectly, dangerously still.

Diana’s words hung in the air between them, a dare she hadn’t known she possessed until she’d spoken it.

Rowan stood frozen by the hearth, the firelight carving sharp angles into his face, his pale eyes glowing with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs.

The battle inside him was a palpable thing, a pressure she could feel in the room, a war between the man who ran and the wolf who stayed.

He was the one who moved first.

He crossed the space between them in two long, silent strides.

His callused hand, scarred from years of hard labor, came up to caress her jaw.

The touch was surprisingly gentle, his thumb stroking the line of her cheekbone as if memorizing her shape.

Her empathic sense, which had been buzzing with his conflict, was suddenly flooded with a feeling so pure and potent it made her knees weak: adoration.

Raw, untamed, and utterly terrifying in its depth.

Then he lowered his head, and the kiss started cautious. It was a question, a testing of boundaries, the barest brush of his lips against hers. She answered by leaning into him, her hands coming up to grip his flannel shirt. That was all the encouragement he needed.

The kiss went hungry fast.

His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against his hard body until there was no space, no air, no thought between them.

His mouth slanted over hers, demanding and possessive.

She learned the scent of pine smoke and winter rain from the inside, a taste of the wild that was purely Rowan.

She moaned into his mouth, a helpless sound, and his wolf answered with a low growl that vibrated from his chest into hers.

He broke the kiss with a gasp, his forehead resting against hers. His breathing was harsh, ragged. “Diana. We can’t.”

The words were a bucket of ice water, but the fire he’d ignited refused to be extinguished. “Why not?” she whispered, her voice shaky.

“It’s a mistake.” He pulled back, his hands dropping from her as if she’d burned him. The loss of contact was a physical ache. He turned, his broad shoulders creating a wall between them, and strode toward the darkness of the doorway.

Her heart fractured. He was leaving. After all that, he was choosing to run.

“Rowan,” she called out, her voice breaking.

He stopped in the threshold of the parlor, his back still to her. Lightning flashed, silhouetting his powerful frame for a split second before thunder crashed, shaking the old inn to its foundations.

He turned back slowly. In the flickering firelight, his eyes were no longer pale blue. They were silver, luminous and predatory. The man was gone. The wolf was looking at her. And the wolf was done fighting.

He came back to her, not with caution, but with a raw, focused need that made her whole body tremble. He swept her into his arms and his mouth crashed down on hers again, a kiss that wasn’t a question but a claim. He backed her against the wall, his body caging hers, his hands tangling in her hair.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against her lips, his voice thick with a guttural urgency.

“No,” she breathed, arching into him.

That was his undoing. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, carrying her the few feet to the thick hearth rug and lowering them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs and desperate need.

Clothes became an intolerable barrier. Buttons were undone with fumbling haste, sweaters pulled over heads, jeans shoved down.

His hands, so surprisingly gentle before, were now insistent, mapping the curves of her body with a possessive heat. His mouth left hers to trail a fiery path down her throat, over her collarbone.

“You feel this?” he growled, his lips against her skin. “What you do to me?”

“I feel it,” she whispered, her own hands exploring the hard planes of his chest, the corded muscle of his arms. “I feel… everything from you. There’s no hiding.”

His fingers slid between her legs, finding her wet and ready. She gasped as he touched her, her hips lifting off the rug. He explored her slick folds, learning her, and she could feel his own desperate arousal through their empathic link, a pulsing, undeniable need that matched her own.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, watching her face as he brought her to the edge. “I want to be inside you. Now.”

He shifted over her, his knee nudging her thighs apart. She looked up at him, at the raw hunger in his silver eyes, and felt a thrill of perfect certainty. This was not a mistake.

“Rowan,” she whispered, reaching up to touch his face.

He unveiled his thick cock, and she gasped at the sight of him, hard and heavy and pulsing with need. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his shaft pressing against her wet pussy. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

“Yes,” she said, her voice clear and sure. “Please.”

He entered her with one slow, powerful thrust, filling her completely.

Diana cried out, a sound of pleasure and shock as her body stretched to accommodate him.

He was so much bigger, so much hotter than she could have imagined, a solid, living heat that seemed to chase away the chill of the storm and every lonely night she’d ever spent.

He held himself still inside her, letting them both adjust to the feeling of being joined so intimately, his hands gripping her hips with a possessiveness that sent a thrill through her.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly.

She opened her eyes, locking her gaze with his.

The firelight danced in their silver depths, and she could feel the wildness of his wolf, the fierce, primal possessiveness, the overwhelming need to claim her.

But threaded through it all, a current she could feel with her own empathic soul, was a deep, aching tenderness that was all Rowan.

It was the careful way he held his own weight off her, the slight tremor in the muscles of his arms, the vulnerability he was allowing her, and only her, to see.

“You feel that?” he asked, his voice thick and strained.

“Everything,” she breathed, the word a surrender. “I feel all of it.”

He began moving, a slow, deep rhythm that sent waves of pleasure crashing through her.

The storm outside raged, but the true tempest was here, in the parlor, on the hearth rug.

With every deliberate thrust of his cock, he was driving himself deeper not just into her body, but into her soul.

He was mapping her, learning her, branding himself onto her very essence.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, meeting his rhythm with her own.

The friction was exquisite, building a fire inside her that threatened to consume them both. The rough wool of the rug scraped lightly against her back, the scent of him—pine, rain, and clean male sweat—filled her lungs, and the only sound was their ragged breaths and the crackle of the dying fire.

“Say my name,” he growled, his rhythm quickening, his thrusts becoming harder, more desperate.

“Rowan,” she gasped, her nails digging into the powerful muscles of his back.

He drove into her again, a guttural sound torn from his throat.

Her senses were overwhelmed by what she felt from him: a lifetime of loneliness melting away in the heat of their joining, a desperate, possessive joy that he had finally, finally found his home inside her.

The knowledge shattered her. Her climax hit without warning, a blinding wave of light and sensation that ripped a scream from her lips.

Her own pleasure was magnified tenfold as she felt the echo of his own release flood her senses, a raw, primal satisfaction that washed over her as he emptied himself deep within her, his body shuddering with the force of it.

For a long moment, they were still, tangled together on the floor, slick with sweat and breathing hard.

He collapsed against her, his weight a comforting, solid anchor.

The storm outside had softened to a steady, gentle rain, and the fire had burned down to glowing embers.

He brushed a damp curl from her forehead, his touch infinitely tender.

Then, she felt the shift. The wolf receded, and the man, with all his walls and all his fears, returned. He pushed himself up, breaking their connection. The sudden cold where his body had been was a shock. He sat up, running a hand through his damp hair, his back to her.

He stood and pulled on his jeans, the silence stretching between them. The intimacy of moments before felt fragile, like a dream she was afraid to wake from.

“You should… get some sleep,” he said, his voice rough. He wouldn't look at her.

He reached down and offered her a hand, pulling her to her feet.

He picked up her sweater from the floor and held it out to her.

Their fingers brushed, and the spark was still there, a low, humming current.

He finally met her eyes, and the conflict she saw there made her heart ache.

He wanted to stay. He was going to make himself leave.

She went to bed later that night, alone in her room but not lonely, her body shaky and humming with a new, dangerous energy. Every inch of her skin tingled with the memory of his touch. She was most definitely in trouble, but for the very first time in her life, it felt like the best kind.