Page 38 of Forced By the Alpha

“Beth, I’m—“

“Come for me,” she whispered in his ear. “I need you to fill me.”

He obliged; how could he say no to his perfect luna? He filled her, thrust as deeply as he could inside of her, and felt every last drop drained.

They held each other in the water while the sun-dried their shoulders, catching their breath. Her hair was a sweat-tangled mess, stuck to her forehead, and he found her resplendent.

Now, they were one. Properly mated. He had a luna and a mate; she was his as he was hers.

When her skin prickled again with goosebumps, the heat of the moment whisked away by the breeze, he carried her out of the water and into the house. He was pleased when she laid her head on his shoulder and didn’t protest. Her eyes were closed, long lashes dark against her cheek,

“How does a shower sound?’ He asked, heading for the bathroom.

“Mm, perfect,” she said, voice muffled against his skin. “Do you have hot water here?”

“I’m not a masochist.” He set her down on the edge of the bathtub and turned the water on.

“No?” She blinked up at him, stretching like a cat before sticking her feet in to test the water.

“I’d never hurt you,” he said, suddenly serious. “Is it warm enough?”

By way of answer, she got to her feet and stood beneath the streaming water, giving him a coy look over her shoulder. “Come find out.”

He joined her. Her lithe form, bared to him in full as it had not been in the lake, stirred an immediate interest in his dick.

“Not too old for a second round?” She said, teasingly, wrapping her hand around his stiffening length.

He growled, catching her chin and tugging her into a rough kiss. “With you in front of me, I’ll always be ready for more.”

It was some time before they left the shower, scrubbed clean and pleasantly aching. Beth toweled off beside the sink while he fetched their things from outside, wrapped in a robe. She twisted her hair up and pulled on one of his T-shirts and a pair of panties.

“I could get used to this,” he said, taking in her new look. He was kneeling before the fireplace, coaxing the flames to life. A stack of chopped wood waited in a basket beside the fire, dried and ready.

“Were you a boy scout?” She sat down on the sofa near the fire, curling her feet up under herself. “Oh, this is comfy.”

“There’s a blanket here if you’re cold,” he said, pulling one from the trunk that served as a coffee table.

She took it, eyeing the quilt carefully before settling it over her lap. “This looks like the one back at the house.”

He glanced over his shoulder, tossing another log onto the flames. “My mother made them. She learned from her mother, I think. One of those rooms was always laid out with her sewing machine and piles of fabric. On the weekends, if she wasn’t in the garden, she’d be in that room. I think every one of our relatives got one for their birthday.”

Beth smiled, running her finger along the seams of the quilt squares. “How special. She was a talented woman.”

“And a complicated one,” he said, coming at last to sit beside her. The fire had taken hold of the logs, and a pleasant heat filled the room. He draped his arm over her shoulder and pulled her close. “And to answer your earlier question, no, I was never a Boy Scout. My dad considered that sort of thing a waste of time.”

Beth traced circles on the back of his hand, noting the scars on his knuckles. She wondered where he had gotten them.

“Strange, most fathers encourage their sons in it, don’t you think?”

“He wasn’t most fathers.” Devon caught her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the back of it.

“You don’t like to speak of him,” she noted.

Devon shook his head. “I’d rather look forward to the future than dwell on the past.”

Beth was silent for a time, eyes fixed on the fire. Outside, the sun was sinking lower, splashing the sky with gold. The lake shimmered with it, dancing lights of crimson caught on its surface.

“I’m afraid of your pack, Devon,” she said at last, voice small, still looking at the fire, not at him. “I’m supposed to be their luna. Their leader. They want me gone, dead, humiliated, how can they ever look to me with respect? Or come to me for guidance?”

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