Protecting the Wolf's Mate (Blood Moon Brotherhood 3)

The door shut behind them, sealing them in his suite—in silence. He stared at her, listening to the rapid thrum of her heart and the quiver of her breath. She was his. There was no doubt or hesitation. It was a fact. As natural as breathing.

He walked down the hall, unbuttoning his shirt and then tugging it from the waistband of his pants. She followed, watching him, staring at his chest, as he carefully closed the bedroom door.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands fisting in the comforter. All fire and anticipation.

He stared at her, struck by how incredible she was. Woman, undeniably. Fierce and sexy as hell. And his. He closed the distance between them, running his fingers up the column of her throat and along the curve of her cheek. She stared up at him, breathing heavy, but not touching him. When his thumb swept across her lower lip, she sucked the tip into her mouth—and something inside flared and caught fire.

He bore her back onto the bed, impatient to touch every inch of her. The muscle of her calves, the bend of her knee, and the silk of her thighs. Her breathing hitched as his fingers slid higher, tracing the lacy edge of her panties. Still, she didn’t look away. He didn’t want her to.

He edged the lace aside and traced the seam of her body with hungry fingers. Her legs parted and she reached out for him.

She wanted him. Ached for him. The way he ached for her.

His thumb flicked her tight nub once, twice, eliciting the sweetest moan from her lips. He slid one finger inside of her, soaking in her every reaction. The feel of her clamping down on his finger, the shudder in her thighs, the glazed passion in her eyes. She gripped his arm, holding his hand between her legs, and stared up at him, panting.

“Dammit,” he ground out.

One tug tore her panties free. His hands slid the fabric of her dress up, revealing her abdomen and the prize between her legs. Scars crisscrossed every inch of her. Faint, flat, white, so many. Where had he been when this happened to her? Why hadn’t he been there, to protect her? He’d kill Cyrus for this—no matter what. Ownership rose up.

She was his now. And no one would ever lay a hand on her again.

Ever.

His hand stroked across her stomach and up her side. Sensation was all that mattered. And pleasure. Her pleasure. Whatever her past, her future was his. He’d make damn sure he’d put her first. Starting now.

He kissed along the blade of her hip, ran his nose along the crease of her thigh, and replaced his thumb with his tongue. Honey on his tongue, wet and ready for him. Teeth and lips and mouth, he worshipped her until her hands fisted in his hair and her cry echoed off the walls of his hotel room.

He stood, staring down at the image she made.

Dress tossed around her waist, naked and exposed, and sexy as hell. He traced a hand along her abdomen, gratified by the shudder his touch caused.

She rolled over, reaching up for the tab of her zipper.

He bent, pressing openmouthed kisses to her bare back as he slowly pulled her zipper down. His hands stroked the swell of her ass, the muscles of her thighs. Lips, then tongue, traced the valley between her shoulders and nuzzled the nape of her neck. The taste of sweat, salt, and Ellen had his dick pulsing against the seam of his pants.

She turned, reaching back to grip his neck. He freed her bra strap, his hands cupping her breasts from behind.

“Fuck.” He growled, the feel of her in his hands too much. He bit her shoulder, pressing his straining erection against the curve of her soft ass. She was naked. His pants were definitely in the way. But letting go of her held no appeal.

She rolled over and pushed him back onto the bed. His pants were gone in a matter of minutes. And Ellen was smiling down at him. She put his hands on her breasts, rolling the tips between her own fingers until he was groaning.

Her hand encircled his aching erection, her fingers tracing the length of him, pulling a broken moan from his chest. Every stroke had him stiffening, arching into her hand. And when her lips sucked the head of his throbbing dick into the heat of her mouth, Hollis roared. She smiled up at him, her hands and mouth leading him too close to his own release.

“Ellen,” he whispered, reaching for her.

She straddled him, her fingers offering one last stroke before she slid, ever so slowly, onto his rock-hard dick.

His hands tightened on her, kneading the soft skin of her breasts as he was enveloped deep inside of her. So tight, so hot, gloving him to the root.

She stilled then, balancing herself with one hand on his chest. She moaned, then whispered his name, broken and frantic and desperate.

He stroked the hair from her face so he could watch her. To see everything.

Their gazes locked, her breath hitched, and a powerful shudder racked her body—and his.

“Ellen,” he whispered, pressing his hand against her cheek.

She rocked gently, her eyes closing when he was buried deep.