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Flying would have been a bad idea. After the tense ride down to Missoula, Charles orders two rental cars to continue their trip out of state. Anna sits in the passenger seat while Bran drives to help control his wolf. Mercy sleeps in their backseat, recovering from the aftermath of her first change. Samuel and Charles move to a chase car and everyone breathes easier for not having four very dominant wolves crowded into the same vehicle.
After a long day on the road, Charles and Samuel walk into the double-bedded hotel room to find Mercy and their father both curled up next to Anna. The Marrok, in his wolf form, surveys his sons with yellow eyes. Mercy shudders in her sleep, rolling into a tighter ball from the noise the door makes coming in. She lies sideways in front of the pillows, her head by Anna’s shoulder. Anna puts her book down.
“Did you finish preparing whatever it is you wanted to?” Anna asks.
“Mostly,” Samuel admits, “We’ll need help moving stuff from the car. Charles had too much fun shopping, so you’ll have to pick out which bag has your disguise in it for tomorrow.”
Anna gets up off the bed. She raises a brow to her husband and asks, “Is he talking about some other Charles?”
Charles glances to his brother, staying silent.
Samuel keeps his eyes on Anna, smiling through his teeth. “Just come out to the car,” he says.
“Samuel don’t tell me you wrecked it,” Anna says.
“No!” he quickly holds his hands out before the wolf on the bed stands up, “No, nothing as serious as that. Anna don’t get me killed.”
The Marrok looks to Charles pointedly.
“We can handle it.” Charles assures his father. The wolf blinks as Anna guiltily follows Samuel out to the parking lot. Charles exits after them, closing the door to their room.
“You got pulled over for speeding,” Anna repeats as she rifles through the shopping bags in the trunk of the boys’ rental, “While coming away from the site you were surveying for tomorrow.”
Samuel cringes as he leans on the side of the Camry, his arms crossed.
Anna continues, “And, because the cop’s a dick, he wanted to see Charles’ ID too, just for sitting in the front seat. Which happened to have the same alias on it that the government agencies already know us by!”
Anna bats away a shopping bag. “Samuel! We’re on a list! My real name is on that list! They have my family’s addresses. My dad’s a lawyer. And we’re about to attack some pseudo-scientific research facility for engaging in offensive witchcraft!”
“We’ll use the other car.” Charles tells her.
“They’ll still know it was us.” Anna says. She looks through the next bag, “You really did have fun shopping, though.” She holds up a shirt, “This is nice- I like this one.”
She puts one of the shopping bags on the ground and closes the trunk to sit on top of it. “So, when do we tell Bran?” She asks, “Because I’m guessing there’s a good reason you brought me here instead of airing all this out in the hotel room.”
Charles nods, “We’ll tell him after the plan goes through tomorrow, once his control is better. I want Da’s wolf to have a chance to taste witch blood between his teeth before he has to deal with the rest of the country on our tail.”
“Preferably long after, when we’ve all had a chance to cool down,” Samuel adds, “There’s no need to rush things.”
“Not until the FBI show up at my father’s door looking for me,” Anna glares at the Marrok’s sons. “Good luck explaining that whole ‘But-they-attacked-us-first’ logic to them,” she scoffs, “Especially since witches aren’t supposed to exist.”
“How long have you known us?” Samuel asks.
Charles smiles, “Spin doctoring is our specialty, Anna. Don’t worry.”
They detail the other car, making sure nothing is out of place for tomorrow. While they work, Charles and Samuel pitch ideas to each other about how to bring the idea of witches out to the public, just to see if anything sticks. Anna keeps their expectations for success realistically low.
Afterward, Charles picks up the bags with Anna’s clothes and a few other choice items, and they walk back to room 102. Samuel swipes the key card at the side door then stops the others as he holds open the door to the hallway.
A bang comes from inside the room, like something hitting a wall. Charles runs forward, taking the card from his brother’s hand. He sets the bags on the floor and bursts into their room, tensed and ready for a fight. Samuel follows right behind, guarding Anna.
Inside, there’s stillness. A restless tension fills the air. The Marrok sits against the headboard of one of the beds, human and fully clothed. One side of his face is red and healing rapidly. Mercy clutches at his shoulders, sobbing into his chest. Their da holds Mercy protectively in his arms. She doesn’t struggle against him.
Charles doesn’t want to think about the different scents he can pick up. Samuel edges to a cold stop beside him. Their father looks at them with a glare of calculated fury. Anna peeks around the corner of the wall. The Marrok commands in a quiet voice:
“Leave, please.”
Samuel grabs his brother and pushes Anna back out the door. “Come on,” he says, taking them all to the hallway again. Samuel closes the door slowly, his expression resigned, a sad smile pointed to the ground.
Anna stares at the closed door, her mouth open. Samuel pats her on the back as he stalks by. “You didn’t see anything,” he says. Anna closes her mouth and watches Samuel walk down the hall, moving farther away from the room. Charles picks their bags up off the hallway floor.
“I’m going to ask the front desk for another suite. Should I get one for you too?” Samuel asks when his brother and sister-in-law catch up.
Charles meets Anna’s eyes to check. “No, we can share.”
<>
The wolf on the bed hops down as soon as the other three head out to the cars, his fur every shade between white and black. Bran trots around the corner to the bathroom, his claws clicking on the tile. His white-dipped tail ducks inside and the door shuts. Mercy opens her eyes and closes them again as soon as she hears the sounds of the Change begin.
Moments later, Bran steps out in the middle of buttoning his shirt, and she stares at him, thinking he looks more vulnerable half-dressed than he does standing naked. He wears the blue plaid and jeans from the drive earlier that day and meets her eyes, unquestioning. Mercy quickly looks down.
She slides her legs over to the edge of the mattress, dropping her toes to the gap between the bed and the wall. Her steps fall in a straight line as she walks toward him, her right hand brushing the plaster paint job for balance. Bran fastens the top button just below his throat. He tilts his head, meeting her eyes again as she comes to a stop right before him.
They need to clear the air between them, she thinks. She needs him to know a few things, now, before anything else can distract them. Mercy takes the lapels of his collar into her hands, smoothing them out on his shirt.
Bran stays still under her touch. He warns her again, “Mercy, this isn’t a good idea.”
“You’re right,” She angles her body to pass him, only then placing her left hand on the wall by his shoulder. It’s dangerous, effectively pinning the Marrok in a corner like this. He’s so close she can smell the musk of wolf still in the sweat on his skin. Her heart races.
It’s not a risk, she tells herself. She knows now, his wolf would welcome her. It’s the man who holds all of that drive back. She can tell from Bran’s scent he has full control over his wolf and that somehow, Bran keeps full control over his emotions too. She finds herself wanting to break that.
His hazel eyes narrow at her. She keeps her head down, looking to the pocket on his chest instead.
“You helped raise me, Bran. I get that, but you’re not my father.” Mercy starts, knowing this may be her only chance to say these words, “Joe Old Coyote was my father. He died.”
Mercy’s voice catches. She continues, “Bryan, your friend, was my foster father. He died, too.”
She meets his eyes. There, she sees the polished Bran. Not the wolf. And not even a hint of response.
She draws in closer. “You are not my parent,” she tells him, tilting her chin up.
“And I’m not a child anymore,” She takes his lips for her own.
Like cold stone, he stays motionless beneath her, so she has to make it work. She teases him by leaning in, her hand brushing the muscles on his arm, taking hold of his back. Luring him in, her other hand traces down his chest. Something in his eye moves, and there he is: Unguarded, finally, his eyes hold a question. He begins to kiss her back, gently, his scent full of grief, sorrow, and longing. She stops the kiss mid-breath and pushes him into the wall, hitting his head against it.
“I’m a widow now,” Mercy whispers, spitting her words in anger. “And my husband is dead, thanks to you.”
She walks away. Safe on the other side of the bed, Mercy hugs herself standing in the middle of the hotel room. Bran wouldn’t hurt her… she knew he wouldn’t hurt her, no more than he already had with Adam’s death, no- murder. She should call it what it is, she shivers. Otherwise she wouldn’t be so rash, kissing the Marrok like that… just to attack.
Bran takes a step away from the wall and runs a hand over his face. He takes a while to speak.
“Mercy… your husband died when Leah did.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Bran.”
“Then I’ll talk to the air.” He whispers, Celt in his voice. He paces slowly through the words, adding weight to each one, “By the time we got there, there was only the wolf left. The man you knew was already dead.”
“You don’t know that!” She yells, anger and frustration bringing tears to her eyes.
Bran stalks closer to her, and she waits there. Crying, wanting the strength of his support without wanting him, she leans backward against his chest. She feels the awkward pressure, charged with hatred, until his arms run over her own, and she flinches.
Mercy turns to face him. Her voice cracks as she says, “Adam was mine. My mate. My wolf. Not yours to kill.” Her head and eyes stay pointed down at Bran’s shirt. He stands so close to her.
Bran’s hands return to her arms, consoling her, or maybe just consoling himself. Her life has always been in his hands, ever since her mother handed her over to his care, a three-month old coyote pup in his territory. He sees her as his to protect, and her mate had put her life at risk.
Thing is, she knows this. Wanting Bran to have interfered sooner or to have spared Adam’s life somehow- that wouldn’t get her anywhere. She knew Adam was dead as soon as his teeth bit into her flesh. It was Bran’s rightful kill to enforce the laws that kept them all safe, and some part of her is glad he did. But it’s a very small part.
Bran leaves the silence between them as Mercy’s breath comes in shuddering gasps. Her fingers creep upward, first to cover her mouth, then to reach for him, standing there ready and waiting before her. He holds her, not drawing closer, not pulling back or away- a gentle presence she can cling to. A strength she can trust when her own fails her. She doesn’t want to need him. Her hands curl around the tops of his shoulders at his neck. He points his chin to the ceiling, baring his throat to her. She breathes him in, the slow beat of his pulse calming her own.
She kisses the muscle on his neck and leans her forehead into his weight. Her cries catch in her throat, as she realizes she can’t make a move against him, not like this. His arms close around her, bringing their warmth together.
Shameless, they hold each other, standing there in the middle of the floor. Bran sits down on the bed, leading Mercy to join him. She leans heavily on his chest, until his back touches the bed and they’re lying down next to each other. She curls up against him, nestled in his arms and the scent of her comfort. It’s not out of lust but for that feeling of pack that both of them need each other so desperately right now. She smells his relief as she lies in his arms, and that overpowers her hatred and anger at him. If only briefly.
Mercy fiddles at his shirt buttons, wanting to bask in his weakness and vulnerability again. He sits up after the first two come undone. She looks to his face, expecting to see his furrowed brow. The eyes of his wolf meet her instead. Her breath catches in her throat.
It’s not the mischievous glance of playful desire but a wary fury coming from the Berserker this time. Mercy palls.
The wolf brings his hands to her jaw and bends down to kiss her. The motion is so fluid she doesn’t even know to draw back. His scent and his power wrap around her, causing her to want him when she doesn’t want to right now. She pulls against him. With an emotional distress more immediate than any physical pain, she tries to get away. The wolf gives her space, only so much for her to breathe and want him all over again. Mercy finds herself leaning in for another kiss. His breath and soft touch make her drunk.
“There’s something you need to know,” the Berserker speaks through their kiss, his accent heavily Welsh. His words drop like secrets reluctantly given, “I really didn’t like that pup.”
If his kisses weren’t so good she would already be gone, away from him, not wanting to hear any more. Instead, Mercy breathes out in a huff and claims his lips again. She adjusts her seat on the bed to be level with his height, just to piss him off.
Bran narrows his gaze, but he stays at her touch. For a timeless eternity they sit wrapped in the taste of each other’s mouth. She runs her tongue along his teeth; they’re not that sharp. He laughs from his stomach, and she moves her hip toward the headboard. Her leg brushes up his jeans.
He drops one arm behind her, his other hand tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Bran starts to admit, “Adam’s wolf only wanted you,” he nestles in closer to Mercy’s neck and whispers to her fluttering pulse. “To possess, as a mate,” his lips brush her skin. “To fuck as he wanted,” his teeth catch her ear.
Her breath stops. The Berserker pulls back, meeting her eyes.
“But he never loved you,” the wolf growls.
She punches that stupid wolf in the face. Bran doesn’t put up any defense, merely holds her in his arms gently as ever as he’s thrown back against the headboard. He opens one of his eyes, glaring at her. She can smell the wolf’s rage. And she feels it too- coursing through their touch to dig under her skin. But none of it is directed at her.
Mercy freezes. Bran’s voice continues to whisper, “As soon as that pup realized he couldn’t keep you forever, he wanted you dead with him.”
She pushes him back against the headboard. His head hits it with a snap, his top two buttons still freshly undone. For a moment she holds the Berserker’s glare with her own. Then it all breaks.
Mercy sobs, falling hard against him. She feels… she understands Bran’s truth. Even Adam didn’t trust his own wolf. It frightens her. Everything she knew about Adam… She cries from the anguish of tainting her mate’s memory. Mercy hits her fist against the wolf’s chest. Cut deep by his cruelty, still his arms hold her together and she leans into him, more because he’s there than for any reason at all. Wrapped in his scent, she hides from herself, from her reality shifting around her. Too many changes come from living with these her monsters and loving them.
The door unlocks with an electronic click and flies open against the wall. Charles rushes in, his dark eyes lightening to yellow in anticipation for blood and battle. Samuel follows, catching his brother’s shoulder.
Mercy shivers, not wanting to meet Samuel’s eyes. Bran’s hands rub down her back, as possessive as they are protective. Mercy catches Anna’s scent of surprise and worry. The silence grows from the stillness ringing in her ears. Bran says quietly, “Leave, please.”
As much as his voice carries the weight of his command, she knows that was something the wolf would never say. A murmuring of voices rustles on the air, and the door clicks shut.
She peeks up from Bran’s chest, unsure if she wants to face the man. His hand continues to rub her back in sultry, circular motions.
“I’m not much better, Mercedes.” Bran speaks this time with his usual accent in place. She looks to his jaw, not wanting to risk challenging his wolf just yet.
The Marrok continues in a voice soft enough that it will not carry through the walls to listening werewolf ears. “I chose not to make love a part of my mating bond,” he explains, “I did everything I could to ensure it wasn’t there.”
Mercy catches the sorrow in his expression, even as she avoids his gaze. Bran says, “There’s no end to the havoc I would cause if something were to…” he touches her chin. “My love for you is dangerous, Mercy. That my wolf loves you in his own way is just one more reason why I don’t want this for you,” he lets his gesture fall between them.
“Are you sure about that?” She asks, wondering if she heard a lie in his voice. She decides, “Maybe I’ll just torment you out of spite, then.”
Her hand slowly reaches for the front of his jeans.
He watches her move. Bran tilts his head and muses, “Is it torment, if you’re willing?” He raises his eyes to meet hers as she touches his fly.
Her fingers glide their way to the top of the zipper. She holds his gaze, glaring at him. Mercy chides, “If you don’t want love with your sex, Bran, I can willingly fuck you without it.”
His brows raise in surprise as she pulls the little bit of metal toward her.
Warmth flows to her fingers from his black boxer briefs. He whispers to her ear, “That’s … a lie.”
She breathes in through her nose, not admitting anything to herself just yet. This would be better done if she doesn’t think. Her hand hovers over the sports fabric, not sure where she wants to go next.
She threads her fingers through the gap of his fly, resting her thumb on the soft ridge of the center bulge. It grows firm at her touch, a steady, patient pressure. Her fingers fan out across the silky texture of his briefs. They curl back when they can go no further, applying a gentle pressure all her own. Bran’s breath catches, his muscles tense.
Mercy breathes in again, the air rushing to her lungs. She moves her knees so she’s sitting on top of his legs. His hands brush down to her waist. She adjusts her hips so the soft, stretchy fabric of her sweats won’t hold her back by tugging in all the wrong places. She sinks her thighs in closer to his core. Bran’s fingers stroke down the crevices, applying pressure to his caress as he spreads his palms along her thighs.
His body relaxes as her other hand dips up his shirt to trace the waistband of his jeans, tucking her right hand down inside the front to meet her left. His hands run over her back, exploring softly, catching her butt. She gasps as he pulls her in. She gets his jeans button undone and rides her hands up his sculpted abs. He kisses her lip, her chin, down her neck. Past her throat to the bare skin exposed by her scoop neck top.
Her fingers drop to his pants again as his lips fall between her breasts and she watches him. He runs his touch along her arms and breathes in the scent of the skin on her chest. “You’re cold,” He observes, sadly. His nose hovers over gooseflesh.
She lifts his lips to hers and kisses him again, without an answer, with no change to her mood.
He resigns himself to her, running his hands along her arms in practiced motion. Carrying her with him so her legs still straddle his hips, he moves to the edge of the bed. She holds on to his back, clasping her wrists behind his neck. She kisses him deeper while he spreads the soft cotton of her shirt out of the way and runs his touch up the bare skin by her spine. He rubs her shoulders once, twice, then returns down her back, feathering his hand up under her bra to massage the skin there. His palms cup the turn of her waist; his thumbs stroke the warm skin over her stomach. She leans into him. He was hers, after all. With a kiss, she admits it to herself, that even here and now, she loves him.
A soft smile spreads across his lips tucked against hers. Superior bastard. Her anger rekindles at full force. She grabs his hair and glares at him. His eyes watch her – shockingly hazel. She expected more of the wolf to be at play. Mercy blinks, her anger dissipating in her surprise. Caution takes its place.
Tentatively, she edges closer, holding his eyes, a test. He meets her lips, drawing her in with hesitance, a slow softness. They kiss again. Something about it … connects. An ache fills her lungs.
Her hands run up his shirt, over his skin, feeling his warmth all the way to his shoulders. She drinks in his scent, the musk of man instead of wolf. He throws the shirt off over his head and runs his hands down her back again. A moan escapes her, and she starts - suddenly afraid.
Mercy slips away from him, overwhelmed by the sudden heat. Her bare feet land on the carpet as she backs across the narrow gap of floor to the wall. The coolness of the plaster almost returns her to reason. Bran stands before her, his head tilting down to ask her kiss again.
She steps in to his kiss. His bare chest before her has fluffy little sandy colored curls above the hard-chiseled muscle below. She wanted to touch him so bad, and only now that he’s there, she resists. He scares her, open to her now, like this. Her fingertips brush his jeans beltloops instead. Fabric was safer than touching skin, right? She tugs him closer, and the rise in his briefs touches the base of her stomach. Fabric wasn’t safer.
Mercy turns in flight, only to find there’s nowhere to go. She hits the wall, spreading her fingers wide to catch her in her speed before she falls. The texture of the rough-painted plaster bites at her skin. Mentally, she curses. Bran leans over to face her, checking her expression. He braces one hand on the wall, between her and the door, she notices. It pisses her off, just a little bit. His eyes are all concern.
“Mercedes, I can stop. We don’t have to do this.”
In a breath, he moves back to sit down on the bed. His composed expression hides the air of stubborn, disappointed reluctance she can feel rising between them. She turns her head back.
“Bran, no. Get back here.” She tells him, “I panicked a little, that’s all.”
He sits there behind her with mussed hair, shirtless, his fly undone, his boxer briefs leaving nothing to the imagination. His arms dangle in front of him down the side of the bed as he looks up at her with doubt and strong resistance.
“Mercy, I don’t take orders well.”
That was an understatement.
He sighs, “And panic is not a good sign. I won’t pressure you into something you don’t want.”
She says the words before she can stop herself, “No, you’re more likely to manipulate me into agreeing with whatever you say so I want to do what you need me to.”
The Marrok ducks his head in a laugh, “You trust me so little.” He meets her eyes in a genuine smile, “That’s probably a good thing.”
Mercy rolls her eyes, “Bran, please come here.” She adds, “If you want.”
He smirks, “Better.” Bran stands and moves close to her again, laying a hand on her back. He murmurs into her ear, “We can work on that.”
She narrows her eyes in response as he taps his knuckles to her shoulder blade. “Do you want to continue?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says with a touch more attitude than she intended.
Bran leans over, meeting her eyes with one brow raised.
“Yes,” she repeats, a little more straightforward this time. She tells the floor, “I just don’t want to face you while we’re doing this.”
He looks over her shoulder, not meeting her eyes. “Okay,” he says slowly, “I can do that.” He runs his hands down the sides of her shirt, already sending shivers of shocked excitement through her skin. His fingers slip under the waistband of her sweats and run along her bare hips as he leans in close. The old country’s lilt returns to his voice, “You’re not suggesting anal, are you?”
Mercy’s body tenses in fright. Bran suddenly laughs, breathy and quiet. His hands slip off her hips as his forehead bumps her shoulder. He moves her hair aside and kisses the back of her neck, quickly returning his hands to her sides in a reassuring massage.
“I’m joking, dear-heart. Don’t worry.” His hand slips up the front of her shirt and runs over the taught muscles to her breastbone. “I know you too well,” his voice soothes. He strokes up the center of her ribs with two fingers, applying pressure to the skin even through her sports bra. Her stomach muscles relax. “Maybe some other day,” he murmurs to her ear.
She tenses again and looks to his sly smile, both her hands still pressed against the wall. Bran’s eyes gleam, “Eighteen hundred years and counting, I think I’ve learned a thing or two. You might enjoy it.” He encourages.
Mercy scrounges up her face then widens her eyes suddenly. Her voice betrays her interest, “Wait, eighteen hundred- how old are you?”
“Eighteen hundred sixty-seven,” Bran answers simply to her ear. She turns back to the wall in awe as his voice whispers with command, “Don’t tell anyone my age. Even Samuel doesn’t know,” Bran leans in, placing his left hand over hers on the wall. “And he doesn’t want to.”
His fingers trace down the center of her stomach again. She hears the mischievous smirk in his voice as the Marrok murmurs, “So don’t tell his age either, but he’s eighteen forty-nine.”
Her heart races faster from his touch as her mind struggles to keep up. “Why are you telling me this?” she asks.
“Because it’s fun,” his remaining hand joins hers on the wall. He gently bumps her from the back with his hips and gives a couple playful taps. Then he stills.
Bran bends his head forward, “Because it’s been too long, and I need someone to share the secrets no one else can handle.”
Mercy breathes in. Bran’s weight leans against her whole body. He sinks closer to the wall, pressing into her. It doesn’t feel near as intimate as his words, though. Surrounded by him, she wonders just what it might be like to stay by his side. Could she do it? Does she even want to fill that role? What kind of life would it be… to be the Marrok’s partner… and then what? No, what was she thinking? She would have to deal with all that… A rush of blood flows to her head; she can feel the pressure in her ears. Just the thought of being the Marrok’s anything makes her stop. Bran’s body gives a little, and the release clears her mind, emptying all thought to a moment of blissful peace.
And yet the quiet truth of his words rings over and over again in her ears. He taps against her in a gentle rhythm. She leans back against him, pressing her strength into the wall. His body aligns with hers, fitting snuggly against her, skin touching cloth. Something tingles in her toes.
His hands trace down the wall, coming back to her hips as she keeps the pressure solid between them. He tucks his fingers back under her waistband, pulling the fabric down as he brushes his fingertips sideways along her lower stomach. The elastic stretches to her hips. From behind, his body nudges between her cheeks. She can feel the sporty texture of his briefs through the thin cloth covering her skin.
His fingers reach down her front, over the cotton of her underwear, pulling at the coarse, wiry hair underneath. He presses between her lips, rubbing her clit as his hips press in from behind.
She braces herself against the wall, leaning into his chest as his finger rubs her deeper in a slow, steady caress.
The other hand reaches under her shirt. In a quick movement, it rides under the band of her bra and grabs her breast, giving it a squeeze. She gasps. His lips kiss her neck as his lower hand holds her stomach against him. He bites the muscle of her shoulder, not enough to hurt. She hisses in pleasure.
He presses his hips toward hers, and she wants more of him. She pushes out from the wall, putting him deeper into her. They move against each other, just like that in an undulating rhythm.
She leans her head back against him as his hand moves lower down her pants, past her underwear to the muscle on her thigh. Her sweats ride off her hips as his hand brushes along skin to the inside of her leg. He moves her stance wider, guiding her foot with his own to readjust their position. Stepping in closer, his briefs rub against the bare skin of the small of her back with their friendly pressure. His hand traces up the inside of her leg, back to the warmth that quivers at his touch.
His finger combs under the cloth between her legs and hovers hesitantly over her hair, lounging in the texture. His right thumb flicks her nipple. He massages her breast. She clenches, closing her cheeks around the firmness rubbing at her back. His left hand touches her through her hair, slowly spreading his fingers out along the warmth of her skin. He surveys every crevice and mound. Her breath comes in gasps with each new discovery.
Skin against skin, he slips farther between her legs, rubbing the tight flesh until her muscles loosen. He fiddles around above her clit, moving in circles. She presses harder against the wall, driving him into her from behind as his fingers follow her body, not wanting to move away. He digs deeper, then dives down over the surface of her lips. His middle finger traces the line between them, meeting the slick wetness there. He penetrates and curls his finger back, catching her clit, beckoning her to come.
The thin cloth of her panties moves down her hips with every nudge from behind, riding lower and lower. His right hand slides away from her tit. She barely notices, what with the attention she puts into his left down below. The warm touch of his flesh meets her back, sending shivers through her whole body. She feels the softness of his skin wander down the surface of her back and trace between her ass. He tucks it beneath the elastic still around her hips, threading himself between her legs. With a soft rub, their sensitive skin brushes past each other, back and forth.
His hands come to her hips, making her step back from the wall. She stretches her torso, all of her strength going to her legs and her stomach. He glides down the crack of her ass again. His hand runs over her stomach, moving lower, past the hair to run over her lips once more.
His fingers trace her hip from the other side, returning to her clit with a zing. His body grinds against her throughout. The thin fabric of her sweats pulls about her thighs. She arches her back and presses into his touch as he spreads the folds of her lower lips. A pressure pokes between her legs. She feels his firmness run along her most sensitive skin. Fingers guide the way to the intimate warmth waiting inside.
The head slips between her folds. Slick, it rides into her flesh sending throbs of pleasure through her. She welcomes him there; thrumming with his heat, she smiles in ecstatic joy. She can feel his pulse through their flesh.
Her pants drop to the floor. He slides her panties down to join them. On the way up, his hand tucks under her knee, taking the weight off her feet one by one to kick away the fallen clothes. He keeps one of her knees over his forearm, stretching her hips wider.
She bends that knee up to the wall, getting him in deeper as her weight falls to her other heel. He spreads her legs open, turning her body with him inside her. She gives a cry of pained pleasure. Meeting his eyes, she kisses him immediately, her arms reaching out for him, pulling his lips to her mouth. She drinks him in, melting his tongue with hers. She tastes his scent. And sweat. The taste of the air. Their sex.
She presses into him, using the wall for more strength. Her leg curls around his waist as he tucks her firmly around him. Bending his knees, he pulses up and down and presses her hard against the wall. He lifts her weight off her other leg, wrapping it around his hips to join the other. She holds on for dear life as he courses within her. Her breasts pique up against his chest, her nipples hard beneath the fabric. His arms wrap under her open-spread thighs, holding her closer to him.
He pushes off the wall, taking her with him. Suspended in his arms, she floats. Her back arches as for a moment she holds him only with the muscles inside her. She kisses him again, passionately.
He sinks on to the bed, bouncing a little. She keeps the bounce going, enjoying it. She throws her shirt off and he purrs, helping her out of her bra. His lips brush her tit. Sucking at one, he gives it a gentle nip, then moves to the other to kiss her breast again. His hands slide the rest of his jeans down. He kicks them off as she grabs at his briefs, pulling them down his thighs with eager hands, throwing the cloth away off his feet. He laughs at her triumph. She joins him, smirking before taking his lips again. She wiggles her hips into his.
He falls back, and her hands brush up the center of his chiseled abs. She bends her body over his, as she plays with the curls of his chest hair. Her fingers spread wide. She swirls them down to his nipples to feel them perk and harden. She teases him more and he groans, growing inside her. She gasps, and he grabs her ass, moving his legs up sideways on to the bed, still keeping her with him. She holds herself close to him, not wanting to move too far from where he wants her. Off-balance, her hand hits the bed and she meets his eyes, laughing at her awkwardness. He kisses her.
She rises to top him properly as his fingers round up her ass to her hips. He runs along the ridge of her bones there then moves down her muscles to the hair above her clit. Even with him still inside her, he presses a thumb to her front, and she pushes against him, wanting more. His other hand returns to her cheeks, tracing one finger up the center crack to touch her taint. She gasps. “Don’t.” she warns.
“Only teasing.” He answers and presses the surface gently. She moans, not knowing it could feel good.
Mercy rides him in a slow, rocking motion, pressing him into her clit she pleasures herself, finding the best angle. He lies back with a sigh. Fully relaxed, he smiles lazily and watches her enjoy. His eyes follow her chest as she rocks. He grazes her stomach, her face, and more as he runs his hands along her ass, her legs, her thighs.
She moves her knees up and down against the bed, sliding him in and out of her, keeping slick. Cold chills run through her flesh where she flutters along his length. Faster and faster she flies, bringing herself to climax. Warm liquid runs between her legs, the space of their sex burning with heat.
She continues to flutter as she leans down to kiss him. Her tits bob up and down over his chest. He catches them. Letting them bounce in his hands, he gives them a squeeze. His thumbs run over the surface to her nipples, making them grow hard. Her clit gives a twitch, causing her to spasm around him. He grunts, and she relaxes her legs against his sides, willing herself to let go, just a little. She releases her clench, fluttering freely again.
He ends the kiss, and moves his mouth to her tit. It happens so fast, he scares her a little by biting the inside of her breast. Pleasurable shivers shake down her stomach as he kisses her nipple again. She likes it. His lips return to her mouth and she smiles. His hands comb through her hair.
He sits up with a thrust that puts him in even deeper than she could have ever imagined possible. Mercy clings to him, clawing her fingers down the skin of his back as he gives a soft, pleasured growl. They press against each other. She continues to ride him, holding on. Faster and harder he guides her hips against his, setting the pace. She drips more between them, liquid flowing between her legs. His sweat and hers mesh together with the slick wetness, and their skin squelches with every move, making sound. She can’t breathe, it feels too good.
She pushes Bran back down on the bed, toppling over him, kissing his lips wildly; he catches her. She spreads her knees wider, moving back into a straddle so she can use the full purchase of her strength this time. He tries to hold on to her, keeping her close to him as she rises to ride him again. His hands claw down to her thighs, gently, still sending her nerves haywire across her skin, up through her breasts to her neck. He rides with her, thrusting from below as she rides, no longer gentle, rather rushed and urgent. Leaning back, her mind fills with clouds as no thoughts or emotions come to her senses any longer. Sky high with his touch, her mind goes blank. Her vision dulls as she rides, until she sees no color at all.
Bran turns his waist and tosses her to the bed. From the bottom, he tops her as Mercy spreads her legs reflexively for him to enter. Mercy arches her back, pulsing with him, dancing with his thrust.
His speed increases. The bed rocks against the headboard above them. She can’t think, she can only feel and keep moving with him, under him, offering her support from below, egging him on to go further, go faster, harder, as hard as he can. They move faster as he pounds into her. The air swirls with their heat, their breath, their sound, and their scent.
She cries out a moan of sheer pleasure as her body tightens around him. He freezes, holding her to him, supporting her back as her hips rise off the bed. She relaxes into him, stretching her legs wider so he gets even deeper into her. And his touch, it’s Ecstasy. He pulses within her a few more thrusts. She dazzles at the peace within her own body. He stops, and his muscles tense up all along his back under her touch. She feels his warmth spread inside her, a liquid pressure not her own.
He lowers her back down to the bed. Collapsing onto her shoulder, he lies on top of her, his flesh still between her legs. She puts her hand on the back of his head, combing her fingers through his short, spiky, sweat-drenched hair. She listens to him breathe as he grows smaller inside her.
Without a word, he rolls over and lies next to her on the pillows. His fingers trail up to the headboard, then turn back down to rest by her ear. She nestles up to the crook in his arm. Side by side, time passes. He brushes strands of hair away from her face.
Mercy looks to the carnage of the bed. “Housekeeping might as well burn the sheets,” she says.
“Want to save them the trouble?” he offers, adjusting his arm.
“Bran!”
He laughs, and as the seconds tick by his expression cools, until he lies there, lost in thought, tracing small circles into the skin of her breast.
“So, where do we go from here?” she asks, feeling a little more sober.
“I’m Alpha, and you’re an unmated female,” he says, muted. “Technically, this was nothing,” Bran turns his composed air to her and breaks into a fiendish grin, “Since you already belong to me.”
Her mouth falls open. Mercy kisses him quick to shut him up. “I hate you,” she says.
He smiles easily in genuine amusement.
You’re mine, she thinks.