Page 9

I followed her inside. Instinctively, I reached my hand out toward the wall switch to flip on the overhead lights so she could see where she was going.

"Leave the lights off."

I dropped my hand back to my side. Through the faint moonlight filtering through the balcony curtains, I watched her stand in the center of my bedroom. She was a small, pink shadow waiting for a brute to make his move.

I stood by the doorway, my wolf eyes adjusting effortlessly to the gloom. Rosalind didn't move toward the bathroom. She didn't reach for the zipper at the back of her frilly pink dress. Her hands disappeared beneath the voluminous skirt.

I stopped breathing.

The fabric shifted as her fingers worked underneath it, giving me fleeting glimpses of the lush curves the ridiculous dress had been hiding all night. A flash of thigh. The soft sweep of her hip. Then came the quiet rasp of silk peeling away from warm skin.

Her thighs rubbed together as she worked. The dress concealed most of what her hands were doing, which somehow made watching worse. The silk of her panties appeared halfway down her thighs, sliding slowly over the long length of her legs before she stepped free.

She picked them up between two fingers and set them on the bedside table. The tiny scrap of silk landed with a soft, damp plop. At some point during the night, she'd gotten wet.

Fuck.

She turned, climbed onto the center of my king-sized mattress, and lay back against the pillows. She hitched the heavy pink dress up to her hips and spread her thighs wide in the dim moonlight.

Her scent hit me like a physical blow—sweet, hot, and laced with dark heat that flooded the room. My wolf surged to the front of my chest, snarling and clawing at my ribs. Every primal instinct screamed at me to pounce, to pin her down, to pound into her until the whole house shook with the claim.

"What's the problem, Blackwood?" she asked, her voice dripping with cool, condescending boredom. "Can't get it up?"

"It's up all right."

"Well, put it in then. Or do you need me to draw you a bull's-eye?"

My dick twitched, hardening further at the sharp jab, but my patience was wearing thin as paper. I ground my back teeth together. The muscles in my chest strained against my tracksuit jacket as I forced my voice down into a low, gritted growl.

"I want to make it good for you, Rosalind," I said, taking a heavy step toward the bed. "If I just shove my arrow at your target, it's going to rip you apart. It's going to hurt."

Rosalind sat up abruptly, resting her elbows on the mattress, her frilly skirts pooling around her waist. "I'm not expecting us to make love like in some romance book. I'm not even expecting us to fuck. This is copulation for a purpose. We need an heir, and we need an alliance. So let's just get it over with so I can go to sleep."

What the actual fuck?

I had spent the night worrying about how not to scare her, asking my sisters-in-law for advice on gentleness, and trying to handle my new wife like spun glass. And here she was, acting like a cold-blooded hell-spawn who just wanted to check a box on a contract.

Fine. If this is how she wants to play it.

I kicked off my sneakers, knelt on the edge of the mattress, and climbed over her.

The moment my shadow fell across her body, the bed dipped under my weight. My massive frame dwarfed her completely, blocking out what little moonlight filtered through the balcony glass.

Rosalind stiffened. Her breath hitched in her throat. Her chest heaved beneath the pink silk as the sheer, suffocating reality of my size finally registered. She looked up at the wall of my chest, her gloved fingers twitching against the sheets. Then her jaw set, her chin jutted up in the air, and she forced her posture back into that unfazed, defiant mask.

I reached down to the waistband of my track pants and pulled out my dick. It sprang free, thick, heavy, and throbbing, fully erect and pulsing in the dark.

"Spit on my hand," I commanded.

"What?"

"I don't keep lube or condoms in my bedroom at my parents' house. I don't bring females here. And unless you want me to split you open like a dry log, you need to get wet enough to fit me. Spit in my palm."

Rosalind let out an incredulous snort, but she didn't argue. She leaned forward slightly and spat into my open right palm.

I looked down at the meager drop. I brought my hand to my mouth, spitting heavily into my palm to mix with hers, working the moisture around until my thick fingers were thoroughly coated.

I leaned over her, planting my left hand beside her head, and reached my wet fingers beneath the mountain of hot pink ruffles. I slid my palm over the soft, bare skin of her inner thigh, feeling her muscles tense under my touch. When my hand reached the center of her heat, my fingers brushed against slick, completely hairless skin.