Page 52 of Moonlight and Mischief
She lets out a giggle that sounds like pure light as I press a hand to the small of her back to keep her from falling back into our plates. Through the rush of need, I’m barely aware of her hands going to my neck and jaw, before she’s kissing me and I’m devouring her.
Her tongue runs along my lips, urging them open. My heart stutters at the way she nips her teeth over my bottom lip for a second before delving into a deep kiss that leaves me starved for oxygen.
With a cute little snarl, her nails press into my skin, spurring me on. I break off from her mouth, kissing her jaw and then the hollow right under it.
I’d like to take my time, but it’s too much of a frenzy as I’m kissing and licking along her neck, looking for a spot that will make her moan. Knowing that no one else has ever done this makes me illogically possessive.
As my tongue teases the skin right at the base of her throat, she lets out a little choked sound. I suck softly, loving the way her nails dig in and her thighs squeeze my hips. I could spend all day doing this.
“More,” she whimpers.
Her hand closes over mine and drags it up to her breasts. She follows it by pulling at her tank top, but somehow I stop her. I’m not sure where the willpower comes from. “Keep your clothes on, woman,” I say through clenched teeth. However, I can’t help myself from running my thumb down the line of her breast, between them, and then over her nipple. The thin fabric does nothing to hide the shape of her.
She takes advantage of my fixation, pressing her own mouth to my neck. The feel of her tongue running along my throat makes me bend, pushing into her, my hand tightening over the softness of her breast. The minx responds by tipping her hips up, so I’m pushing against the warm center of her. I’m grateful in that moment for the thick black sweatpants between us, because those boxers are not enough of a barrier. She compounds it with a nibble of her teeth on my neck.
Too much.
I step back, gasping for air or anything that can calm the inferno burning me alive.
Marigold is flushed, her eyes glowing despite her pupils eating up the irises. Her chest heaves while she regains her breath, and then she throws back her head and laughs.
Dumbfounded, I stare at her. My brain struggles to restart rational thought. When she looks back at me, she says, “That was fucking amazing.” All I can do is shake my head and gawk at her. “Do you really have to leave?” she asks, biting her lip as she stares boldly into my eyes.
The challenge of her tone gives me something to focus on other than the scent of her skin. Slowly, I lean in, letting my breath feather across her neck, keeping my lips a millimeter above hers. She arches, desperate to resume devouring each other, but I stay barely out of reach. “I really do.”
Walking away, I have to adjust myself. Her disappointed growl follows me out of the house. Closing the door behind me, I lean back against it, heart beating frenetically.
What the hell was that? Friends that kiss, my ass. That was a full-blown seduction.
It takes all my self-control to not race back into the cabin. If that is her idea of friends with benefits, I cannot imagine her feelings about being mates. Shoving my hand through my hair, I tug at the roots aimlessly.
With great effort, I force myself away from the door. There will be time later to figure out what Marigold is thinking. I have a feeling that whatever she wants, she’ll get. This woman will be my undoing.
Heath paces, making all of us terribly uncomfortable seated around the table while our Alpha stands. The emotions pulsing through the room are suffocating.
Slate rests his forehead in his hand, looking more than a little stressed. Leaning in, I ask, “Where’s Hazel?”
“Running patrol,” he answers quietly. “She wanted to check the Granite Ridge border this morning.”
Hawthorne’s hands are folded in his lap, his ankle propped up on the opposite knee. He’s had a decade plus of experience over Slate and I, and it shows in how calmly he faces everything.
After what seems like hours, Heath speaks. “I’ve been thinking about Ferris and Zephyr’s alliance. They were meeting regularly for a long time, and now Zephyr seems to have truly renounced him.”
“Like he said, he could have realized it was better for his pack if he was aligned closer to us and the Valley Pack,” Hawthorne offers, though he looks unconvinced.
Slate drags his hand through his long hair. “Do we think it’s a farce?”
Heath sinks into a chair, opposite Slate. “That’s my intuition, yes.”
“That would explain Ferris’s lack of reaction. Not protesting our statements, not trying to place blame on anyone else,” I say.
“But why?” Slate asks. “What are they playing at?”
Gripping the edge of the table, I swallow and share my theory. “My mind keeps going to the Raven Pack. It seems unlikely that Nyx has been aggressive toward Ironcrest.”
“I agree,” Hawthorne says, “I asked Elm last night, and he feels the same. He is contacting his relatives there for us.”
“Thank you,” Heath says. “So what about the Raven Pack, Jasper?”
