Page 34 of Beckett's Fate
The kiss had become more primal and with it, the sheriff had ripped off her clothes.
Even in her dream she knew that was unlikely.
He cupped her breast, tugging at her nipple as it pebbled before he leaned down and sucked it into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it before giving it the edge of his teeth and moving his mouth to the other one. Not wanting the first to feel neglected, he tugged and pinched the it, making her gasp.
She expected him to kneel before her, kissing his way down to her sex before feasting on her, but apparently he had invaded her dreams and now sought to dominate her.
He tossed her over the railing, spreading her legs as he stepped between them. She wanted to deny him, but knew she wanted this as much as he did.
Hadn’t she, somewhere in the back of her mind wanted this as much as he?
He plunged two of his fingers in and out of her pussy, growling appreciatively at the amount of slick he found there. She looked over her shoulder, gripping the railing to keep from falling over. With a feral smile, he held her in place, tugging open the fly of his jeans and allowing that monster cock she’d seen earlier in the day to jut out.
“Mine,” he growled as the railing bit into her pelvis, and he surged forward, his cock impaling her and making her cry out—not in pain or outrage but in lust and satisfaction.
With brutal and primal intent, he began to thrust in and out of her, pounding her in a show of dominance and possession. His strokes were powerful and frenzied as he fucked her long and hard. She’d never thought herself one for rough treatment, but she reveled in the way he hammered her with a relentless and primitive fury.
He didn’t ask her if she wanted him; didn’t ask for permission; he just took what he wanted, and what he wanted was her. He rammed into her repeatedly, causing her to climax more than once. She could feel his cock twitching and swelling and knew that his release was imminent.
He gripped the top of her shoulder as he gave her a final, ruthless thrust and began to spill his seed inside her.
“Next time, I will knot you as I claim you as my mate.”
She wasn’t sure if it was the intensity of the dream or his final words which caused her to wake with a start. She shook her head as she got out of bed and headed to the mini fridge for a bottle of cold water. She took a long drink and got back into bed.
But no matter how many times she woke and told herself she would not repeat the dream, she did. By morning, she was exhausted and felt as if Beck had been in her bed all night, and not just in her head.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon wafted through the Bristlecone’s dining room as she made her way down the stairs. Irene sat at one of the small, rustic tables near the window, cradling a steaming mug of coffee between her hands. The sunlight streaming through the curtains should have felt comforting, but her thoughts were anything but.
She picked at the edge of her toast, her appetite dulled by the swirling conflict in her mind. The events of the previous night—both real and dreamt—replayed like a reel of film. She banished the eroticism and brought her conversation with Beck and his confession to the forefront.
You’re my fated mate.
Her stomach twisted, and not from hunger. She knew he was right—she had felt it, too, the moment his presence had first enveloped her. That undeniable pull, the connection that seemed to go deeper than mere attraction. Her wolf recognized him as hers, as the other half of a bond she had spent her life doubting she’d ever find.
But what did it mean?
Her life had been built around independence, around survival on her terms. A mate—especially one as commanding and protective as Beckett Grey—wasn’t part of that equation. She couldn’t deny the appeal of his strength, his steadfastness, or the way his eyes seemed to pierce straight through her defenses. But could she let herself be bound to someone like that? Did she even want to?
Her gaze drifted out the window to the forested mountains in the distance. They called to her, as they always did, but this time the pull felt more like an escape. The treasure had always been her focus, her purpose—but now, with Beck in the equation, everything felt tangled.
Do I even want this anymore? But if I don’t, don’t I owe it to my pack? And what about them?
The thought startled her. She’d spent years searching for clues—first to the location of the Lost Dutchman and now to the treasure of Silver Falls, chasing a dream that could change everything for her pack. But Beck’s words lingered in her mind, a quiet echo of doubt. Was the treasure worth the risks it carried? Worth putting her pack—and herself—in danger?
She sipped her coffee, the bitterness grounding her, and made a decision.
Distance. She needed distance. From Beck, from his words, from the intensity that seemed to follow him wherever he went. A day in the mountains would clear her head, help her focus on what mattered.
Pushing her plate aside, Irene stood and headed for the door.
The mountain air was crisp and cool against her skin as Irene moved along a narrow trail, her boots moving softly over the rocky ground. The forest enveloped her, its familiar sights and sounds offering a semblance of comfort.
But even here, her thoughts were restless. She couldn’t escape the nagging awareness of Beck, of the way he looked at her, the way he seemed to see right through her. And she couldn’t shake the suspicion that he was nearby, watching, ensuring she was safe.
The thought should have irritated her. Instead, it warmed her in a way she wasn’t ready to admit.
“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, quickening her pace.