Chapter 9: The Mark

Rafe went still beneath my hand.

"Say that again," he said.

"Bite me."

"Lenore. A mark can't be undone."

"I know what it is. I'm twenty-eight, and you're thirty-six, and I know exactly what I'm asking."

"You're married."

"On paper." I pushed up on one elbow.

"I'm not asking for the paper.

"I'm asking for you."

He searched my face in the dark for a very long time.

I thought he would argue.

Instead he said, in a voice I had not heard from him before, "Are you sure?"

"I have never been more sure of anything in my life."

He rolled me beneath him, slow, and settled between my thighs.

I felt the thick length of him against me, already hard again.

He guided himself into me with one hand, and I sighed at the stretch.

"Look at me," he said.

"I am."

"Keep looking."

He moved in me with long, deep strokes that built the ache until it was all I had.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and turned my head to bare my neck.

I felt his breath on the side of my throat.

Then his teeth sank in.

The pain was bright and short, and then it was not pain.

Warmth rolled out from the bite and filled me to the fingertips, the cedar-and-smoke of him pouring into my blood.

I came with a cry that echoed against the ceiling.

He groaned against my skin and followed me over.

I felt his heat fill me, and the bond settle into my bones.

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