Page 38 of Fetch Me A Mate (Shifter Mates of Hollow Oak #1)
ROWAN
H e followed her up the stairs to the attic suite, every ache in his body a dull thrum against the sharp, clean wire of need that pulled him after her.
The fight was over. The running was done.
He had said the words, admitted what he felt, and she hadn't bolted. She’d stayed.
She’d looked at his battered face and seen the man underneath, not the monster.
The attic was their sanctuary, a space they had reshaped together.
The wide windows looked out over the sleeping town, and the air smelled of fresh paint, sawdust, and the faint, sweet scent of Diana herself.
Canvas drop cloths were still spread over the newly finished floors, a soft white landscape under the pale light of the moon.
She turned to him in the center of the room, her amber eyes luminous in the dark. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft, her gaze tracing the bruises on his face.
“I am now,” he said, and it was the truest thing he had ever said. He reached for her, his hands gentle as he cupped her face. He was done being careful. He was done holding back.
He lowered his head and kissed her, a slow, reverent exploration that was an apology and a promise all at once.
He poured every ounce of his relief, his gratitude, his overwhelming, terrifying love for her into that kiss.
He felt her respond, her hands coming up to tangle in his hair, her body melting against his.
This was not a claiming. His wolf, for the first time, was not demanding possession. It was content to simply be near her, to feel her warmth, to know she was safe and she was his . This was an asking. A prayer.
He broke the kiss and began a slow, worshipful journey over her skin.
He worshiped patience into her, his mouth trailing from her jaw to the frantic pulse at her throat.
He unbuttoned her dress with hands that trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from the sheer force of the emotion coursing through him.
He slid the soft fabric from her shoulders, his lips following the path of newly revealed skin.
He knelt, kissing the curve of her belly, his hands stroking the soft skin of her thighs.
She undid every lock he had ever built with her mouth and her hands. As he worshiped her body, she ministered to his, her fingers tracing the lines of his scars, her touch not one of pity, but of acceptance. Of understanding.
“Let me,” she whispered, her voice rich with an emotion that mirrored his own. She sank to her knees before him on the drop cloth, her hands going to the button of his jeans.
He had never been looked at the way she was looking at him now. There was no fear, no hesitation. Only a fierce, determined love that saw all of him, the broken parts and the healing ones, and wanted it all.
She freed his cock from the confines of his jeans, her fingers warm and sure against his straining length. He was painfully hard, aching with a need that was as much emotional as it was physical. He watched, his breath hitched in his throat, as she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.
Her warmth enveloped him, and a low growl rumbled in his chest. She took all of him, her throat muscles working as she drew him deeper.
Her tongue was a decadent torture, stroking and swirling, and he could feel her own arousal through the bond, a rising tide of heat and need that fueled his own.
She was not just performing an act; she was consuming him, taking his pain and his past and transforming it into a pleasure so profound it bordered on pain.
His hands tangled in her soft, honey-blonde hair, his hips beginning to move of their own accord.
“Diana,” he gasped, his control slipping.
She pulled back, her lips slick, her eyes dark with passion. “My turn,” she said, her voice a husky promise.
She rose, a goddess in the moonlight, a vision of defiant strength and soft curves.
With a gentle pressure on his shoulders, she pushed him until he was sitting on the rough canvas of the drop cloth, his back solid against a stack of unused lumber.
The scents of their lovemaking, fresh paint, and raw wood mingled in the air, creating a perfume that was uniquely theirs, the scent of a new beginning.
She straddled his lap, the weight of her settling against him, still dressed in her simple green dress.
The friction of the fabric against his bare skin was a sweet torment.
Her movements were fluid and sure as she reached behind her to unzip the dress, her eyes never leaving his.
She shrugged it from her shoulders, letting it pool around her waist. The moonlight cascaded over her bare shoulders and the swell of her breasts, and Rowan’s breath hitched.
He had never seen anything so beautiful.
She leaned forward, kissing him deeply as her hands worked the clasp of her bra, letting it fall away.
“All of me,” she whispered against his lips, her voice a promise. “All of you.”
She took his thick, straining cock in her hand, her touch both reverent and sure, sending fire through his veins.
He watched her face, transfixed, as she guided him to her entrance.
With a slow, deliberate grace that spoke of absolute trust, she lowered herself onto him, impaling herself on his length.
A sharp, shuddering gasp was torn from her lips, her head falling back as her body accepted all of him.
Her pussy was so tight, so wet, so impossibly hot around him, a silken sheath of pure welcome.
He could feel every exquisite ripple of her muscles as she adjusted to his size, her body clenching around him not in resistance, but in a deep, primal greeting.
A guttural groan escaped him, and his hands came up to grip her hips, not to control, but to anchor himself in the reality of the moment.
“You feel that?” she whispered, her voice shaky with pleasure as she leaned forward, her forehead resting against his.
“I feel everything,” he rasped, his own voice so thick with an emotion that it felt bigger than his body could contain. “You. Us. Home.”
She began to move, a sinuous rocking that was pure, exquisite torture.
She rode him with an innate rhythm, her eyes closed, a soft smile gracing her lips.
He could feel her pleasure through their bond as if it were his own, a blooming, radiant warmth that spread from their joining to fill every dark, empty corner of his soul.
He could feel her love, a steady, unwavering light that chased away the last of the shadows from his past, healing wounds he didn’t even know were still bleeding.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly, needing to see her, to confirm this wasn’t some fever dream.
Her eyes fluttered open, locking with his.
The raw, unfiltered honesty in her gaze was his undoing.
He saw his own desperate, hopeful love reflected there.
He saw a future he had never dared to imagine, a life of quiet mornings and shared work and peaceful nights.
He saw a man he didn’t recognize, a man worthy of this incredible, brave woman.
“I love you,” he said, the words torn from the deepest part of him, raw and absolute.
“I know,” she answered, her voice breaking with tears he could feel were born of joy. “I can feel it.” And he felt it too—he felt her receiving his love, a wave of warmth and light that washed over her and then reflected back to him, creating a perfect, unbreakable circuit of emotion between them.
Her rhythm quickened, her hips rocking against his with a building, frantic urgency.
The slow dance became a desperate, joyous claiming.
He met her thrusts, his own control unraveling as he watched her, completely lost in the sight of her pleasure.
He saw the exact moment her orgasm began to build, the flush that crept up her chest, the way her breath hitched in her throat.
He drove up into her, hitting that perfect spot deep inside, and her climax ripped through her, a beautiful, shattering cry that was his name.
Her pussy pulsed around his cock, milking him, and it was too much.
With a final, desperate thrust and a guttural roar that was more wolf than man, he poured himself into her, his release a white-hot flood not of relief, but of pure, unadulterated peace.
He slumped forward, his face buried in the curve of her neck, his body trembling with the aftershocks. The night was quiet. The war was over. Not only with his pack, for his mate or for his town. But with himself.