Mate (Bride, #2) (85)

“I hate bras.”

“I hate them, too. My afterlife will just be me, watching you move around my house in nothing but my clothes. Knowing that you’re warm and fed and safe and so damn soft.”

“Please.” I need to come again. Find a spot on the side of his throat, lick it, savor the tremors that shake him every time I cant my hips into his cock.

On some strokes, he arches up. Once, I think he’s going to come. He does, too, and his intake of breath is so deep, I almost think he’ll throw me off him.

But he has better control than that. He urges me softly, patiently. Tells me to take what I want. His voice is hot against my cheek. The skin of his

glands feeds me with something explosive. That’s why it wasn’t enough, my first orgasm. What I need is him in my bloodstream. Lock and key.

“Koen?” I slur, almost there. “Do you think this is the last time? Do you think we’re n-never going to do this again?”

He doesn’t respond. But right as I’m about to come I hear him say, “If it were, I would regret nothing.” That’s when my mind blacks out, and my body bursts into flames.

After, I wait for the shame to sink into me, but it never does. I revel in the sticky fabric, teeth marks, temple nuzzling. Prickly stubble and faintly green forearm veins as he gets himself under control.

“I can wash your clothes and— ”

His hand tightens around my scalp. Something between a mild threat and an invitation to back off. “I’m going to bury my face in them the second you go to bed, killer.”

It’s heady, how much he wants me. Mixes with what’s left of my Heat fever. Coats the inside of my nostrils and the buds on my tongue with delicious, unspoken requests. The idea of denying him is repulsive, plain and simple.

“I want to give you what you need so badly,” I say.

His large hand strokes down my hair, soothing me and himself. I burrow into him and feel him shiver in response.

“I know that you took an oath. And I know that this is doomed. But . . .

Koen. There is very little that I wouldn’t do for you, if you were to ask me.”

“Serena.” I hear the blurry edge of his smile. A quiet sigh. “I would throw away my pack, my life, and my entire world for you. Which is the exact reason I cannot have you.”





CHAPTER 27

His nuisance. That’s what she is.

WHEN I WAKE UP THE FOLLOWING MORNING, AMANDA AND Saul are sitting at the kitchen table. Every single ingredient that one might need to make pancakes has been taken out of the cupboards and neatly laid on the counter. A few that one might not, too.

“Out of curiosity, at what point in the process do you think ketchup becomes involved?”

Saul shrugs. “For the stuffing, maybe?”

“Ah, yes. The famed pancake stuffing. That’s where the capers go, too?”

He nods so hard, I’m afraid his jaw will detach from the rest of his face.

“And remind me, the vinegar— ”

“Listen,” Amanda says bluntly. “As much as we love setting our alarms one hour earlier to come visit with Mommy and Daddy, if we knew how to make pancakes, we would not be here.”

I cock my head. “Am I Mommy in this scenario?”

“Or Daddy,” Saul offers. “You get to pick first, since you provide the pancakes.”

“Nice. I’ll take it.”

Twenty minutes later, when Mommy steps out of his room freshly showered and cleanly shaven, they are in the middle of a bitter argument.

“My editorial position,” Amanda is saying, not bothering to finish chewing, “is that it would be like shooting pure, undiluted moon in your veins. A super-soldier. Leviathan, but in space. And on steroids.”

“Baby . . . no. There’s no atmosphere up there. You’d just be a pincushion for radiation.”

“Weres on the moon?” Koen asks, walking up to me in the kitchen. He doesn’t look like he slept much.

I hand him a mug of coffee. “Yup.”

“Have they been over moonless planets yet?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t howl ’cause sound doesn’t carry?”

“Yes.”

“Pluto’s five moons?”

“Also yes.”

“The asphyxiation?”

“Just now.”

“Great. They must be about to wrap up.” He reaches for the sugar. I stop him with a hand on his wrist.

“Already in there.” It takes a moment for my fingers to let go, and another for him to glance away from the difference in our sizes. My paler, softer skin.

He leans back against the counter next to me, even though there are yards of surfaces for him to use. He could even go sit with his seconds, who were there when he still thought potty jokes were the height of humor and have saved his life countless times. He chooses to be here, though. Looks at me as he takes a sip, while Amanda and Saul’s bickering continues.

“A house divided,” I say. “Want pancakes?”

He shakes his head. “They’ve been working on a space Were book for years. The disagreements started early in the planning phase.”

“I didn’t know they write.”

“That’s because they don’t.”