Page 73 of The Girl in the Forest

A blue-and-white striped bathrobe hung on a hook; on the lapel, the letter F had been embroidered in a loopy blue script. Brown slippers were on the floor, the furry kind a child might wear. They resembled a bear with a flopping mouth and fuzzy ears, although the size was certainly not child-like. The bathroom air was moist, warm, with the lingering, citrusy scent of soap—which made me think of bubbles for some ridiculous reason. Then I looked at the wooden staff resting in a corner; leaves, acorns, and twisting branches were carved into the wood.

Grayson kept his hold on my wrist, but he glanced over his shoulder and said, “Fee.”

“He was here?”

“He likes my soap.”

Before I could say more, Grayson pulled me past towels on a shelf, and a step beyond, I recognized the eager brush of magic an instant before we crossed a hidden threshold and entered another reality.

I laughed. “Hello, magic. Know any good jokes?”

Grayson’s eyebrow arched. “You’re friends enough for conversations?”

“And then some.” I turned giddy and jumpy at the same time. This was the joyful puppy energy from Aine’s wrinkle, although I supposed it was more than that and not limited to one location.

Grayson swung around and I straightened at the gleam in his eyes.

“You’re jealous?” I was curious about that side of him. “It’s only magic.”

And not a man. Not like him.

“I’m…” A flash of alpha canines. “Jealous.”

Two perilous words separated by masculine desire. I stepped back, but he was right there with me, closing in with a firestorm in his eyes.

“Why?” I asked, with no thought of self-preservation.

His fingers constricted around my wrist. Pleasure raced across my skin. Anticipation surged out of nowhere. Memories flooded my senses, of clothes dragged from my body, fingers tracing and probing. Dancing with a man’s hands on my hips as he moved my body.

Being lowered to the sand…

And Grayson… he remembered what I remembered. He cupped my hip with his free hand, tightened his grip around my wrist. The flex of his fingers was slow, deliberate, until the pressure became familiar. I recognized the dominance. His fingers pressed, and I stopped doubting that he’d been in that cave with me, invading the illusion. He’d listened to the hedonistic sounds I’d made. He’d been there when I opened myself to every touch, stroke, bruising pulse of need. When I became wet and eager while he’d been on his knees, screaming.

More than once, I’d lain in my bed at night and remembered the Night of the Beacons. The way he’d touched me. I’d tried imagining him with other women and found it too painful. Still, I wondered what kind of lover he would be. If he’d take a woman gently.

Now I knew. He was the Alpha of Sentinel Falls. A Dread Lord. Grayson Devante would not touch his lover gently unless he was sated and she needed soothing.

But first… first, he would claim her with decadent ferocity. Mark her with passion until she trembled. He would bend her to his will, position her body, seduce her with commands and praise while his hands, his tongue, his cock brought pleasure until she cried out with her body arched and trembling. Then he would turn her over, tell her to grip whatever bed or table or counter and thrust into her from behind, hitting deeper, finding the overly sensitized spots that would have her moaning and pushing her hips back against his…

Sexual heat flared beneath my skin, tightening my nipples, sensitizing my breasts until they were heavy and aching for the touch of his hand. The cleft between my thighs pulsed and moistened. I caught my scent rising in the air, and a soft sob slipped from between my lips.

Grayson grasped my face with both hands.

“Never,” he said between his clenched teeth. “Never be ashamed of your body. You’re beautiful, every scent, every sound. You tear me apart whenever I’m close to you.”

His face was flushed now. My fingers curled in his shirt, my thumbs brushing restlessly. His head tipped. The glitter in his eyes was sunlight on pure, depthless water, while his breath grazed my skin with the seductive warmth of a breeze.

I leaned into him. He pressed his forehead against mine. His shoulders lifted, tense. The tips of his fingers burrowed between the muddy strands of my hair, and seconds later, the braid was loosened. Then the bands holding his control broke.

The darkly male sound he made was unyielding, primal as his mouth crushed mine. His tongue stroked the seam of my lips, thrusting in, pulling back. Devouring like a man starved and unable to stop himself.

The sensations were intoxicating. I could have stood there for the rest of my life, kissing him, tasting him. His head lifted. In the shadowed light, only emerald shards shimmered in his eyes, and I understood this was a private moment between us. No blue of his wolf. As sadly ignorant as I was about wolves… I’d wondered about that. But in this, we were alone, and I cupped his face. Let my fingers trace over his skin, the straight ridge of his nose, the curve of cheekbone. The chiseled jaw with the hint of an afternoon stubble, an erotic abrasion against my palms.

Then it was his turn. His thumbs slid to the corners of my mouth, where he stroked as if readying me for what was to come.

I couldn’t move. The raw sexuality in his touch stopped the air from leaving my lungs. I felt naked, vulnerable. Battered by the heat of his body, so close to mine. I lost all sense of composure. Tension crackled between us like the sheet lightning we’d left behind in Alpen, leaving an afterimage of him. I blinked, unsure if he was there, or if all of this was an illusion.

Real, Noa.

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