Page 129 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

I look at his throat, his mouth, and the teeth he kept from closing on my skin when instinct urged him to mark me. “If we bite-bond someday and I need to leave?”

His expression doesn’t change. “Then you leave. My bite would never be used to hold you where you didn’t choose to stay.”

“You want to bite-bond me.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t.”

His thumbs stroke the inside of my knees. “A permanent bond deserves a choice made together, not when you are frightened, exposed, or trying to prove your feelings. We’ll wait for your answer, but we want you for ours.”

Roman stands behind me, his palms resting on my shoulders.

“And if I ask for a bite later?” I ask.

Wes’s eyes hold mine. “Then I’ll ask whether you’re feeling playful or asking for forever.”

The attic becomes too warm. My skin notices every point of contact: Roman’s hands, Wes between my knees, the dress gathered beneath his thumbs. I breathe in cedar and cardamom. My body answers with slick gathering between my thighs.

Wes’s gaze drops for one brief second, then returns to my face. “Scarlet,” he says, voice low and certain, “keep looking at me like that, and I’m going to forget how to hold back.”

Heat unfurls in my belly. Wes’s hands remain steady on my thighs, his thumbs moving no higher even as slick gathers between my legs.

“What if I want you to stop holding back?”

Chapter 30

Scarlet Sage

The question changes Wes. His focus narrows until the attic, the open boxes, and every unanswered warning around us disappear from his expression.

“What if I want you to stop holding back?” I ask again.

His hands tighten on my thighs. “Careful what you ask for,” he says, his voice roughening. “Because if I stop holding back, I’m not going to be gentle about how much I want you.”

“I don’t want gentle.”

Roman draws a measured breath behind the stool. His palms slide from my shoulders along my arms as he leans over me, his chest warm against my back.

Wes keeps his eyes on mine. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want this room to belong to me when we’re done,” I say. “I want to stop being careful in it. I want to stop thinking, even for an hour.”

Roman’s mouth brushes my temple. “That part we can arrange.”

Wes rises between my knees. “Then we’ll ruin you properly.”

His mouth covers mine before I can answer. There is nothing careful about the kiss. He takes my lower lip between his teeth, then soothes the sting with his tongue while his hands travel beneath my dress. Roman holds me upright against him, one arm around my waist and the other hand spreading over my stomach, as though he can feel every place Wes’s kiss reaches.

The attic grows smaller around us.

Wes breaks the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth along my jaw, his voice rough and low. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to take you apart like this.”

He lifts me from the stool. I hook my arms around his shoulders as Roman pulls my grandmother’s folded quilt from the cedar chest near the wall. He spreads it beneath the open window, giving the stars a clear view of every filthy thing about to happen.

Wes lowers me onto it.

The quilt smells faintly of sun-dried cotton and the sachets my grandmother used to hide between blankets. Blue stars and faded yellow flowers cover the fabric beneath my palms.