My Mate Cut My Brand Off, So the Outcast Wolf Claimed Me novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Mark

She follows him in; their first night is slow and then not, and a silver mark rises over her cut brand and he goes still.

His room had one lamp, an iron bed, and no pictures on the walls.

I shut the door behind me and he did not ask me to open it.

He stood at the foot of the bed with his hat off and his shirt half unbuttoned.

He looked at me and did not move.

"You walked past the room I gave you," he said.

"I know where I'm going."

I crossed the floor, put both hands flat on his chest and pushed the shirt back off his shoulders.

His skin was hot.

His chest was broad and covered in sandy hair.

A long pale scar ran across his ribs on the left side, where a horse had put him through a fence.

I laid my mouth on it.

His breath went in sharply, and his hand came up and cupped the back of my head.

"Marit."

"Take your jeans off."

He did, and I took the rest of mine off, and for a moment we stood in the lamplight with nothing between us.

His eyes went down me slowly and came back up, and his throat worked.

"Say something," I said.

"I'm trying to remember how."

I had never looked at a man this long.

He was big and plain and solid, and his cock stood thick against his stomach, heavy and flushed at the tip.

I wrapped my hand around it.

He shut his eyes and a groan came out of him that I felt in my palm.

"Careful," he said. "It's been a while."

"How long?"

"Long enough that I'll embarrass myself."

"Good," I said, and stroked him once from root to head.

His hips jerked.

He caught my hand and lifted it away, and then he lifted me, and laid me back across the iron bed.

The quilt was cold under my back and his body was hot all down the length of mine.

He braced himself above me on his forearms and looked down.

"Rod."

"Yes," he said.

"Fuck me."

His eyes went black.

He kissed me, deep and slow, his tongue moving against mine until I was rocking up against him.

He reached between us and found me with two fingers.

I was still swollen from the table, still slick, and he slid in easily.

"Look at that," he muttered. "You're still wet for me."

"I've been wet for you since the truck."

He growled and added a third finger, stretching me, and I pushed down onto his hand with a sound I couldn't hold in.

"Now," I said. "I don't want your hand."

He positioned himself and pressed the head of his cock against me and held there.

I could feel how big he was.

I lifted my hips to meet him.

He pushed in slowly, one thick inch at a time, and my breath went out in a long ragged sound.

"Oh, God, you're big."

"Take your time," he said.

"I don't want to take my time," I said.

"I do," he said, and his voice cracked.

He sank into me all the way, and stopped, buried to the hilt, and stayed there.

My body clenched around him.

It was full and tight and almost too much, and then it was exactly right.

He was shaking above me with the effort of not moving.

I wrapped my legs around his waist.

"Move."

He pulled back and thrust in, slow and deep, and I felt it all the way up my spine.

He did it again.

He found a rhythm that was rough and unhurried, each stroke dragging along every nerve inside me.

I clutched his shoulders and dug my nails in.

His mouth was at my ear.

"You feel that?" he said. "That's what you've got. That's how good you feel."

"Don't stop talking."

"You're so tight. You're so wet. God, Marit."

He moved faster.

The bed frame rapped against the wall with each thrust and I didn't care who heard it.

He slid his hand under my knee and hitched my leg higher, and the angle changed.

The head of his cock hit the spot inside me that his fingers had found.

I cried out.

"There," he said. "Right there. I've got you."

"Harder."

He gave it to me harder, his hips slapping against mine, and my clit rubbed against his pelvis on every stroke.

Heat gathered low in my belly and built.

I wasn't thinking about the Book, or the fire, or Cade's face.

I was thinking about nothing at all except his weight on me and the shape of him inside me.

"I'm close," I gasped.

"Let go," he said.

"Rod, I'm going to-"

"Come on my cock," he said into my ear.

I came so hard my vision whited out.

My pussy clamped down on him in long waves and I screamed his name into his shoulder.

He held me through it with his face in my neck and swore under his breath.

When it let go of me I was trembling and boneless.

He kissed my forehead, my eyelids, the corner of my mouth, the pulse under my jaw, and he went on kissing me while I breathed.

He did not pull out and he did not hurry me.

"Better?" he said against my temple.

"I didn't know it could be like that," I said.

"It can be better."

"Show me," I said.

"Soon," he said, and his hips moved once, slow, and I felt how much he was holding back.

He had not come.

He was still hard and deep inside me, his whole body trembling, and he was looking down at my face.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing. Just looking."

I put my palm against his jaw.

"You've never had anyone here, have you," I said. "In this house."

"No," he said.

"In this bed."

"No."

I pushed him over onto his back and went with him.

He let me.

I sat up astride his hips, not taking him in yet, and ran my hands over every part of him I could reach.

His shoulders were hard and sunburned at the neck and pale below the collar line.

I traced the scar on his ribs with a fingertip, and he flinched and swore.

"You're ticklish," I said.

"I am not."

I did it again, and he caught my hand and pinned it to the mattress, laughing.

It was a low rusty sound, and I don't think he had used it in a long time.

I stared at him.

"Do that again," I said.

"Laugh?"

"Yes."

He did, and then he stopped, because I had reached down and taken him in my hand, and he was too hard to laugh.

I lifted my hips, and I took him back inside me, slowly, watching his face.

His mouth fell open.

"Marit."

"My turn."

I rode him.

I started slow, rolling my hips and feeling him fill me, and his hands came up to my waist and held on.

Then I leaned forward with my palms on his chest and moved harder.

The bed creaked.

His chest heaved under my hands.

He slid one palm up my stomach and cupped my breast, and the other went down between us and found my clit with his thumb.

I jolted and clenched around him, and he swore and his head went back into the pillow.

"Do that again," he said.

"Do what?"

"What you just did with your pussy."

I did it on purpose this time, tightening around him on the downstroke, and his hips came off the bed.

"You're going to kill me," he said.

"Not yet."

I rubbed myself against his thumb and rode him slow and deep.

I watched his throat move every time I took him all the way in.

"Look at me," I said.

He looked.

His eyes were gray-green and half shut and wet at the corners.

"You like this?"

"God," he said. "Yes."

"Tell me."

"You're beautiful," he said. "You're so beautiful on me. I can't-"

"Say it."

"I've wanted this for two years," he said.

I stopped.

My hips stilled with him buried inside me, and I stared down at him.

"Two years?"

"Since your father's funeral," he said, and shut his eyes. "Don't stop. Please."

I didn't understand it and I didn't stop.

I took him in long deep strokes, grinding down until the pleasure climbed again.

He met me from beneath, thrusting up into me, his hands on my hips dragging me down.

I braced one hand on the headboard to steady myself, my left, the wrist wrapped in the bandana.

He caught it.

He wound his fingers around my wrist over the cloth and pulled my hand down to his chest.

He held it there flat over his heart.

"I'm going to come," he said. "Marit, I can't-"

"Do it. Come inside me."

He went off with a hoarse shout, his hips driving up and his hand clenching on my wrist.

I felt him pulse inside me, hot and heavy, and that tipped me over the second time.

I came with my head back and my whole body locked around him.

The bandana slid loose.

I felt it go.

It dropped off my wrist onto his chest, and the cut he'd bound lay open to the lamplight.

I looked down to see if it was bleeding.

It wasn't.

A thin line of silver light was coming up out of the cut, out of the skin around it, spreading in a curve.

It lay across his hand where he held mine, and it was warm.

Rod went still under me.

All the color left his face.

"No," he said hoarsely. "Not you."

I stared at the silver line on my wrist.

"What is it?"

He did not answer for a long time.

When he did, he said it very quietly, and every word cost him.

"That's the rising."

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