Page 54 of Where the Roses Bloom

“Oh,fuck,” I groaned, driving deeper, her breath catching on each thrust. “Willow…you feel so fuckin’ good, baby. You’re mine.Mine.”

“And you’re mine,” she breathed. “You were always mine.”

I braced a hand beside her head, the moss slick beneath my palm, and thrust again—harder, deeper. Her nails scraped down my back, a raw, possessive mark that made me hiss between my teeth.

“Harder,” she begged. “Please, I need?—”

I gave her what she asked for.

My rhythm turned savage, hips snapping forward with the kind of force that felt ancient, primordial. She met every thrust, body greedy for it, her cries swallowed by thunder and the constant thrum of rain. My cock dragged against her walls, caught in her clenching heat, each stroke a prayer to whatever god presided over this land.

It felt like the grove was breathing with us.

Like every breath she took, every moan, every sigh, echoed into the trees and came back into our lungs.

Willow’s hands slid to my chest, fingers splayed wide like she would take hold of my heart. Her hips moved beneath mine, but her eyes opened and locked on my gaze. “I need…” she gasped.

“What do you need, baby?” I breathed. “Tell me, please, I?—”

But before I could finish, she pushed.

Hard.

I didn’t fight it, couldn’t have if I tried. She didn’t want to get away; she rolled me over, thighs still locked around my hips, straddling me in one fluid motion. Rain streaked down her bare skin like ribbons of light, lightning flashing, illuminating her throughthe canopy…

A silver halo around her head, those golden eyes flashing like a wildcat.

Not bright, not garish, but lit from within.

“Willow,” I breathed.

She sank down on me deeper than before, eyes raised toward the evening sky, her lips parted. My cock stretched her open, filled her all over again, and she rode me like she already knew the rhythm of this ritual.

Like the land had written it into her blood.

“Fuck,” I gasped, grabbing her hips, helpless against the feel of her tightening arousal. “Fuck, rosebud…you’re beautiful. You’re beautiful…”

She didn’t answer. Just rocked her hips, slow and deep, then again, faster, faster…

She was soaked, wild, alive in a way I’d never seen anyonealive. And she moved like she was claiming me—like her body was the altar and I was the offering. I wanted to be. I wanted it more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life.

I wanted a whole damn life with her, years and years…none of this short-lived Ward bullshit.

So I let go.

Let her take me, let her ride me like the rain was anointing oil and the moss our marriage bed. My back arched off the ground as she squeezed around me, slick and hot and pulsing, her hands splayed across my chest, her body writhing. Every snap of her hips brought us closer—to climax, to rapture, to whatever spell this grove had been waiting hundreds of years for.

She moved like she was dancing on the edge of something sacred, like the weight of generations had settled in her hips and she was shaking it loose with every grind, every breathless moan that left her throat.

The rain poured harder.

It traced the lines of her throat, her collarbone, drippedfrom her pink nipples, slid over her stomach to where my cock disappeared inside her. Her thighs gripped my hips like she was anchoring herself between this world and the next, and I watched her, stunned, utterly wrecked by the sight of her.

This woman.

This fucking miracle.

I slid my hands up her sides, holding her steady as her rhythm turned frantic. Her head fell back, back arched, her hair dark and tangled with rain, and she cried out?—