He had already marked her.
He wanted to howl.
Or at least pounce on her and claim her. It was absolutely primitive, the way that he wanted to make every male in the world aware that she was his.
“Relax,” he soothed. He could feel the tension flowing off her, and he could only assume it was because she felt it, too. He knew this thing between them wasn’t just about sex. These weren’t fleeting emotions that would just go away.
His teeth captured her earlobe before he kissed his way down her neck. Slowly, he pressed himself inside her tight entrance, nearly blacking out as her body bucked off the bed. A moan of pleasure escaped her lips as she hooked her ankles behind his back.
She was scorching.
Burning him inch by inch as he gritted his teeth and kept himself from thrusting completely into her and breaking her in half.
“You’re so…hard.” She exhaled with what he hoped was a satisfied sigh.
“Kind of the point.” He let out a dark laugh. “But glad you approve.”
“I do.” She returned his kiss, grabbing his face, losing complete control as her hips bucked against his.
Brock Wellington was a man of complete control.
A man who knew what was expected of him.
Brock Wellington died in that moment, and was replaced quite possibly with the man he was always supposed to be. Crazed, passionate, slightly drunk on the feeling of the perfect woman in his arms… His destiny felt altered, his world changed.
She met each thrust, her nails digging into his skin as her head fell back against the pillows, her body arching into his, responding, pulling him tighter inside her heat.
Jane let out a gasp as he filled her one last time and stopped—his body throbbing for release.
It was a moment he wished he freeze in time—the look on her face, the feel of her body beneath his, and the absolute certainty he felt in his heart that this was exactly the future he wanted—for both of them.
A future together.
When her eyes opened, he found he couldn’t hold back, not anymore, as with one last thrust she found her release.
His orgasm followed immediately after, and he yelled the first “yes” he’d ever really meant.
For her.
For them.
Brock looked down at Jane, kissed her softly, then smiled.
“What?” She was out of breath. “Why are you smiling at me like that?”
“Because.” He shrugged. “We still have nine days alone, unless you count the animals, but I’m going to be more careful about locking doors from here on out.”
“Oh.” She nodded. “So we’re going to have sex like nine more times? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Nine? Woman, you’ll be lucky to get any work done outside of this bedroom for the next two weeks.”
“Oh, no.” Her face fell in mock sincerity. “I hope my employer won’t be angry with me.”
“He may punish you.” Brock kept a straight face. “Hard time in the bedroom for not cleaning the bathrooms just right.”
She smirked. “Slave driver.”
“He really is.”
She fell into a fit of laughter when he slapped her ass playfully then rose from the bed to grab a towel and start the shower.
They both needed to wash off the sweat and everything else.
He was in his room, so he at least had clothes at hand, but she would want to put on something comfortable.
“Be right back,” he called over his shoulder while she stretched out on the bed. Damn it, he was ready for her again.
He quickly ran into her room in search of sweats or something she could wear so that she wouldn’t have to run around naked—even though that’s exactly what he wanted. But he knew she’d want to be comfortable, or maybe he just wanted her to be comfortable. Because suddenly all that mattered was her.
His eyes locked on the dresser. He walked over and opened the top drawer and cursed as he pulled the drawer out far enough that it fell.
Jane came running at the sound, a towel wrapped around her body. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Get out,” he whispered.
“But—”
“I said”—he rasped—“get the hell out! Now!” He kicked the dresser. Jane’s perfume flew off the top, smashing at his feet, filling the room with her scent.
Her eyes filled with tears.
And she ran.
Good. She should run.
He couldn’t control the rage that filled him. Bracing himself against the dresser he looked down at the drawer.
It never occurred to him that his grandfather would keep things. Keep memories, store them away for Brock to find.
Plaid shirts.
Harmless plaid shirts.
And stuck between them, the stuffed dog his dad had given him—the day before he’d died.