Derren shouldn’t have been at all surprised to wake up and find himself alone. After another round on the kitchen floor, he and Ally had migrated to the bedroom, where he’d made her come all over his tongue before they’d crashed. Sometime later, he’d woken up and taken her again. He’d intended to reach for her yet again, but she was gone.
Seeing that it was still dark out, he made his way to the kitchen, where he pulled on his jeans before going in search of her. He found her exactly where he knew he would: in the hammock. Her face was scrunched up in pain, and she was squirming restlessly. It was something he’d seen her do in her sleep many times before.
Protectiveness surged through him, and his wolf whined in concern. Derren crouched before her and pressed a light kiss to her mouth. Her eyelids flickered open, but her gaze was cloudy and faraway. He had the feeling she wasn’t properly awake, wasn’t really seeing him. “You’re safe, baby,” he murmured. Wherever she went in her sleep, it wasn’t safe.
“I couldn’t get out,” she muttered so quietly it was a wonder he heard her. “I couldn’t get out to warn them.” Then her eyelids closed once more.
He didn’t know what the hell that meant, but he did know he wasn’t leaving her out here alone. Scooping her into his arms, he settled into the hammock with her draped over him. He played his fingers through her hair and smoothed his other hand down her back, relishing that he could touch her as he pleased. It . . . steadied him, soothed him somehow.
All the time he’d spent holding back, resisting the urge to touch her, had been agonizing in a way that made no damn sense. It had left him mentally and physically on edge . . . as if he’d been suffering from a lack of skin-to-skin contact for years. But the only touch he’d been starved of was hers. And he’d felt it acutely.
If he didn’t know for a fact that she was someone else’s mate, Derren would have wondered if she was his. It would have explained the hint of possessiveness that had been there from the beginning. Would have explained his wolf’s obsession with her. Would have explained the depth of Derren’s hunger for her.
He’d never wanted any female—hell, anything—the way he wanted Ally Marshall. Had never before felt like he’d go insane if he didn’t have this one thing.
Now that Derren had finally had her, now that he knew what it was like to be in her and have her come apart around him, his hunger should have technically eased. It hadn’t. The raw, razor-sharp need was still as overpowering as before. One night with her wasn’t enough.
Derren’s eyes fell on a bite mark—his mark—on her neck, and his wolf growled with satisfaction. A brand was a symbol of possession, and for a shifter to leave a brand on another was, in effect, a temporary claim. On some level, Derren had known from the very first thrust that he’d need more than one night. And just maybe the brands she’d left on him indicated that she felt the same. But shifters were known to leave brands if the sex was wild enough, and there was no denying that what had happened between them had been wild and primal.
Whatever the motivation behind Ally marking him, she wasn’t getting away from him. He needed more than one night. Of course she’d object to that, whether she wanted the same or not, because Ally was skittish. But he knew he wouldn’t behave and leave her alone . . . even if she did have the potential to fast become an addiction.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The smell of coffee woke Ally . . . which was odd, since she was sure she’d switched it off—
Derren’s mouth on hers. His fingers threading through her hair. His cock thrusting inside her. His teeth grazing and biting.
As the entirety of last night’s events crashed into her mind, she moaned. Although she didn’t regret any of it, she still cursed herself for being weak and giving in to him. Or, more accurately, for giving in to herself. Her wolf was extremely smug about it.
Ally was surprised he’d lingered. She’d pegged him for the type to scamper while she was sleeping and escape any morning-after awkwardness. She should have known better. Derren didn’t flee from anything. He faced everything in life head-on, almost daring the world to come at him.
She, on the other hand, would have been happy to avoid any post-one-night-stand discomfort. As a shifter, she had no hang-ups about casual sex. After all, a girl had to eat. Still, a one-night stand was new territory for her. She didn’t know the morning-after etiquette.
Did she say thanks and hint for him to leave?
Was she supposed to make him breakfast?
Were they meant to discuss it? She didn’t really see the point in postmortems.