Page 79 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
His name breaks from my throat as his tongue soothes the bite mark before moving to create another one lower, along the curve where my neck meets my shoulder. A secret claim that will be hidden beneath most clothes but visible in tank tops.
"You need this."
His words vibrate against my skin as he works his way across my collarbone, leaving a deliberate pattern of marks.
"Need what?" But I know what he means, and the stubborn part of me refuses to give it easily.
He's marking me. Actually marking me like I belong to him.
I should be angry. I'm a strong, independent woman. But it sends another wave of heat between my legs.
He lifts his head, eyes boring into mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "This. Someone who puts you first."
"That's pretty presumptuous of you."
The sarcasm earns me a sharp nip to my shoulder. I gasp, my body arching toward him despite my defiant words.
"Your body doesn't lie."
He chuckles, the sound dark and possessive.
"Your pulse says otherwise." His thumb finds my racing heartbeat again, and I bite back a whimper at the contact. "Look how you respond to me."
His free hand skims down my side, tracing the curve of my waist with maddening lightness. Every nerve ending comes alive under his touch, hyperaware of each callus on his fingers, each deliberate caress.
God, he's good at this. Too good.
"You're shaking."
The observation comes out clinical, but his breathing is harsh and uneven, betraying his own affected state.
"So are you." I manage, noticing the slight tremor in the hands that can hold a rifle motionless for hours. That tremor is because of me. The realization sends power coursing through my veins.
Something flickers across his features—surprise, maybe vulnerability—before the mask slides back.
His hand slides down, fingers finding the button of my jeans with expert ease.
The denim slides down my legs, and I step out of it automatically. My bra follows next, his movements efficient but reverent as he removes each barrier between us. Standing in only my underwear, pinned against his wall by a man whose control is fracturing because of me, I should feel vulnerable. But I feel powerful.
"What am I to you, then?" I meet his gaze directly, noting how his jaw tightens at my continued defiance.
"Mine to protect."
His hand cups my face with surprising gentleness, thumb tracing my cheekbone.
"Mine to care for."
The touch moves down, fingers skimming along my throat to rest over my racing pulse.
"Mine to pleasure."
His hand continues its path south, and when his fingers trace the edge of my underwear, my hips buck involuntarily toward the contact.
"Mine."
The final word comes out broken, and I realize his control isn't just cracking, it's completely compromised.
He needs this as much as I do.The thought fragments as his fingers slip beneath the lace.
