Page 12 of I Don’t Believe In Fated Mates!

"I want you." My voice trembles.

He presses me back against the edge of the table and lifts me onto it in one smooth, impossible motion. A surprised giggle escapes my lips, but it's lost in the press of his mouth on mine.

My body is a live wire, nerves zinging in every direction. Jesse is right there, in front of me. For a long second, he hovers with barely any space between us, just his broad, unyielding frame and the heat of his hands bracing the edge of the table. He studies me like a predator, like a lover—hungry but patient, as if memorizing my face, every tremor in my fingers, every shiver that ripples up my arms. I've never had anyone look at me quite like that before, like I was both prey and prize.

When he reaches up, I flinch in anticipation, but all he does is tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The rough pad of his thumb traces the fragile shell of my ear, then follows the line of my jaw to the point of my chin. He could break me in half with that hand, but instead he cradles me like I was something so precious that even a bruise would be sacrilege. I feel my breath lock somewhere in my chest. All my old defenses, all the sharp edges I'd built up over the years, melt under that touch.

And then he's kissing me again, and this time there is nothing polite or measured about it. My mind goes whiteout-blank; my only anchor his body caging mine, the heat of him pouring into me. His beard stubble scrapes the tender spot above my lip, rough and tasting of salt, and his hands framed my face, thumbs stroking at my cheekbones with an unspoken apology for every hard thing the world had ever thrown at me.

I wrap my arms around his neck. The kitchen—this ancient, echoing room built to hold generations—fills up with the sound of our breathing and the wild, animal thud of my heart.

His hands slide down, close over the neckline of my shirt, and tear it. He rips shreds of cloth away and drops them.

His eyes meet mine, dark with promise. "I'll buy you fifty more," he growls, before the delicate lace of my bra gives way beneath his fingers.

The cool air kisses my skin for only a heartbeat before his mouth claims me, teeth grazing with exquisite care where I was most sensitive.

He fumbles with my jeans, his hands big and clumsy, and my body lights up at how undone he is by me. With a laugh that catches in my throat, I kick them off, taking my underwear with them.

He comes down with a press of body, pinning me underneath his solid, muscular weight.

I don't want to escape. I want more. His mouth is on my neck, then my collarbone, then the soft slope of my shoulder, and each place he touches seems to wake up a hundred more nerve endings I didn't even know existed.

He moves down, kissing my stomach, then parts my thighs with his hands. I melt back onto the table, and let out a low moan of need.

His tongue teases me, caresses me, laps up my juices. "Yes," I gasp. His hands are so strong, spreading my legs so wide.

Then he straightens up, shoves his sweatpants off, and in a daze, I watch as he moves his thick, hard cock between my legs.

When he finally slides into me, emotion and sensation flood through me. Every bit of me that had ever been left out, passed over, or made to feel too much suddenly feels right, and beautiful, and desirable.

He moves with a slowness that drives me mad. Each thrust of his body is deliberate, coaxing the pleasure out of me until the kitchen, the house, the whole world vanish and it's just the two of us, our flesh as one. When my orgasm crashes into me and explodes in a wave of sensation, I cry his name.

"Lane," he groans aloud, and I feel his hot seed rushing into me.

We sprawl across the wooden table, breathing hard and shivering in the afterglow. Moonlight pools on the battered surface, painting our skin.

Chapter Seven

JESSE

My mate is lying asleep in my enormous bed, the bed which once felt so cavernously lonely.

The bed is an old, hand-carved thing built from dark oak. It's piled high with blankets and furs, the kind of bedding meant for long winters and colder nights.

The covers are pulled up over her shoulders, the fabric rising and falling with each steady breath. The fur throw draped across the end of the bed glints faintly in the morning light, silver against deep gray. I used to think the bed was too big, but now, with her in it, it's exactly the right size.

Sunlight spills across the sheets, painting warm gold over everything it touches. The room smells like pine, smoke, and her—an intoxicating mix that makes the place feel more like home than it ever has.

I set the breakfast tray on the chest at the foot of the bed, careful not to wake her just yet. Watching her sleep, the corners of her mouth curved faintly in dreams, I know I'll do anything to keep her. To protect her.

A soft sound escapes her and she shifts beneath the blankets, burrowing deeper for a moment before her nose wrinkles. I can't help smiling.

The scent of bacon and maple syrup must've reached her.

I didn't know specifically what she liked, but I am determined to make sure that waking up to me is the best thing ever, so I basically made one of everything.

There's a tall stack of pancakes, golden, steaming, edges crisp, glistening with melted butter and a drizzle of maple syrup that's already pooling at the bottom of the plate. Next to them, thick slices of bacon curl perfectly beside scrambled eggs flecked with herbs from the little garden by the back steps.