Page 27 of Mated to the Mountain Bear
My bear rumbles possessively at the evidence of our scents mingling.
Mine, he insists.
She’s not ours, I argue back. She’s human. And she’s here temporarily.
But even as I think it, I know the truth. The moment I heard her cry out, and heard those pots crashing, pure terror shot through me. Not a normal level of concern, and not the protectiveness I’d feel for any other guest.
This was raw, primal fear that something had happened to my mate. And the overwhelming urge to kill anyone or anything that hurt her.
I’d shifted back mid-run, not even thinking about clothes, only about getting to her. And when I saw her there, unharmed, the relief nearly brought me to my knees.
Then she looked up at me like that.
My blood stirs with the memory of her mouth, warm and wet, and her tongue sliding against my skin as she sucked the honey off, the sensation travelling straight to my cock.
I bring my thumb to my mouth, chasing her exquisite taste, but it’s already faded.
A poor substitute for what I really want to taste.
“Fuck.” I growl, squeezing the pillow tighter.
My claws extend without warning, shredding through the fabric like tissue paper.
Great.
Feathers explode across the bed, and I stare at the destroyed pillowcase in my hands. Evidence of how completely she’sdestroying my control, having invaded every part of my home, and now, my mind.
I strip the ruined case off then wad it into a ball.
Two days. She’s been here two days, and I’m already coming apart at the seams.
I shove the torn fabric to the bottom of the laundry basket in the corner, then grab the rest of the bedding to cover it. May as well wash everything while I’m at it.
As I gather the sheets, her scent rises again, stronger where she’s slept. My bear practically purrs at the thought of her in my bed. Where she belongs, he insists.
Where she’ll never stay,I remind him grumpily.
Because shewillleave. The moment Beau gives the all-clear, she’ll go back to her life. Back to civilisation, with coffee shops and Wi-Fi, and men who don’t live like hermits on a mountain.
Men who don’t turn into bears and keep secrets.
The thought makes me want to break something else.
I need to get out of this room. I need to distance myself from the scent of her desire before I do something stupid. More stupid than bursting in naked, like some kind of caveman.
Grabbing the full basket, I march down the hallway and head for the door, determined to ignore the fact that I know she’s dripping wet beneath my flannel.
For me.
I groan in frustration, pausing before I storm out. I’m determined to act like an adult and not some teenager who can’t control his hormones.
She’d mentioned something about needing to do laundry.
I find her in the living room, curled in the corner of the couch with one of my books. Her hair is pulled back, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
She looks up when she hears me, colour immediately flooding her cheeks. “Ben, you’re... dressed.”
“Generally am,” I mutter, hefting the basket. “Doing laundry. Do you have anything else that needs washing?”
