Page 74 of Bear Naked Truth
“Fuck, you feel so good when you squeeze me like that,” he panted.
She locked her legs around his waist, nails trailing down his back, and arched into him. Sweat slicked their bodies, her nipples rubbing against his chest with every movement.
His eyes flashed fully milky brown, and he growled low in his throat as he gripped her hip.
“I need to mark you,” he said, voice breaking with emotion.
“Yes,” she gasped, hips rolling up to meet his. “Do it.”
His claws extended—not violently, but instinctively. She felt the drag first, then the sharp sting as they broke the skin on her hip in three deliberate strokes. Her body spasmed, a wild rush of sensation tearing through her.
Her orgasm hit like lightning—sudden, all-consuming. She screamed his name, pussy clenching tight around his cock, milking him as he let out a feral sound and spilled inside her with a shudder.
He buried his face in her neck, breath ragged, his body trembling with the force of his release.
The room went quiet again, save for their breathing.
He licked the mark on her hip, soft and soothing. “Mine,” he said, not possessive—but reverent. “My mate.”
Autumn blinked up at the ceiling, tears tracking into her hairline. “And you’re mine,” she whispered.
He pulled the blanket over them and tucked her against his chest, still deep inside her, their bodies tangled.
Neither one of them needed to say it again.
The mark said everything.
38
DORIAN
Three weeks passed like falling leaves.
Slow at first, drifting. Then suddenly, everything had changed.
The inn was different now. Lighter. Autumn still muttered to ghosts under her breath when she thought no one was listening, but the spirits no longer pressed heavy against the walls. The floorboards no longer creaked like they were crying out. The halls no longer wept. The mirrors held only reflections. The house breathed.
And so did he.
They’d spent the past few weeks elbow-deep in repairs—replacing the windows blown out by the final flare of the ritual, re-chalking damaged sigils, and clearing the lingering soot from the walls of the east parlor. The townsfolk had come in waves to help, armed with ladders, charms, pastries, and opinions. Even Cassian had shown up one afternoon with vintage stained glass panels and an uncharacteristically sincere smile.
Now, only a few details remained. A bit of polish here. A final coat of paint there.
The reopening was scheduled for next week.
They already had bookings—mostly supernatural couples intrigued by the “reformed haunted inn” charm, some in it for the mystery, others for the town’s undeniable magic. Even the realtors who were skeptical of Dorian’s commitment to the place had vanished. No one questioned that he was staying and that Autumn was his mate. Not anymore. And as far as Dorian could tell, the house wasn’t complaining.
Dorian stood in the center of the greenhouse, wiping his hands on the rag tucked into his back pocket. The late spring sun filtered through the glass panels above, casting soft shadows across the freshly swept floors. The vines had climbed a little higher since last week. The little wildflowers from Millie Grace’s herb bed bloomed defiantly in a reclaimed corner.
It lookedalive.
Itfeltlike them.
Behind him, a breeze fluttered the curtain tied at the doorway, and he turned just as Autumn stepped inside.
She wore denim overalls over a thin white shirt, hair up in a loose knot that she’d probably twisted without a mirror. Dirt was smudged along her wrist. She looked like home.
“Hey,” he said, casually enough.
