Page 37 of Angel's Conquest

If only all of her spontaneity in life had been rewarded in such manners, instead of spurned. Her path up until then had been as rigid as bone, with no way out, no hope for change or choice or chances.

Until Bronze had said yes. It was a vote that had never been cast in her favor on a ballot before and one she wasn’t entirely sure how to secure. Were there limits to his role in this ruse? To his affection?

Oh, hell, did she really care if he kissed her like that and didn’t laugh at her when she finally mustered the strength to try and stand on legs that had never been used before?

He was a mate in every sense of the word. A true leader who would inspire males to follow him and people to rise up for him.

And for the moment, he was hers.

The realization made her grip his hand tighter against her aching breasts, which had begun to strain against the laces of her blouse. What would be if she loosened them?

What would be if she asked him to do it instead?

As soon as the thought materialized in her mind, it skittered away on a sharp breath. Bronze moved his hand, the very hand she had been secretly willing to enlist into action. Simmering need shot through her, tightening every nerve ending that came into contact with his skin, and many that didn’t but still sought him out like a flower to the sun.

Surely he would touch her now. Just give one light tug on her laces and alleviate some of the pressure against her already full heart.

His hand retreated, and the disappointment was the kindest no thank you she’d ever experienced in her life. As clear a refusal as there’d ever been. A gentle reminder of their arrangement.

Then that strong hand returned and positioned so it could intertwine with hers perfectly.

“Clara,” he murmured against her mouth, then dragged her name in a sweet trail until his kiss stowed it safely beneath her ear.

She’d never heard her name spoken in such a way. Like it was necessary and elementally vital. Like the way her wolf needed meat or her lungs needed air. The sensation was almost as dizzying as the tortured tingles left in the wake of Bronze’s mouth.

“What do you need, my lady?”

What did she need? How the heck should she know? The past few days had been a giant exercise in step first, think later. But something was taunting her, dragging her attention toward sensations she had no frame of reference for . . .

“I . . . I don’t . . .”

“You don’t need or you don’t know?”

Oh, holy hell. Who was she kidding? She needed, all right. Her whole body was a firework of demands that had exploded every which way. But how could she possibly pick a route? She was like a log adrift, bobbing toward a waterfall she couldn’t see the bottom of.

“I don’t know,” she breathed.

Her doubt was lost on another scorching kiss as he wrenched her beneath him and stretched their clasped hands above her. Bronze was everywhere at once. His scent, his heat, his damnable mouth. He gave her no opportunity to think, which she supposed was part of the point.

Who the hell would want to waste an iota of time thinking when there was so much to feel? And who knew how much longer he’d indulge her? Time was a fleeting factor for both of them.

Then her sharp resolve snapped into focus, chasing the chaos from her mind like an unruly pack of pups.

She knew exactly what she wanted.

Clara tugged on her hand, directing it southward until it reached the laces binding her breasts. His sentinel’s eyes grew darker, giving a wicked contrast to the citrine sparks that hungrily flashed. Then she looped his index finger beneath a single lace.

And waited.

And waited.

Please.

The rip rang out overloud in the spacious medical suite, and the white linen flaps of her blouse parted, exposing her bare breasts. She only had a moment of cool air kissing her nipples before his mouth warmed one chilly peak while his strong warrior’s palm possessively gripped the other.

“Perfect. So fucking perfect, princess.”

Her hands were now free, but the blanket beneath her wasn’t. With each swipe of his tongue and pump of his hand against her newly exposed flesh, she clenched that cotton as if it were a life preserver and she were an unmoored vessel in a storm-tossed ocean.