Moira Rogers - Wilder’s Mate

Still, she had enthusiasm. Parting her lips, she took as much of his cock as she could manage. He arched up, groaning her name, and she shivered at the giddy pleasure of seeing a hard man undone beneath her touch.

She worked him until her own arousal had built again, then lifted her head and watched his face as she reached for his free hand. “Help me,” she whispered as she moved their twined fingers toward his cock.

“Tell me what you like. Show me how to touch you.”

Wilder wrapped both their hands around the rigid length of his erection and thrust up into their shared grip. “Harder.”

His hand tightened around hers, showing her what he wanted. A firm, rough touch, his hips driving with enough force to make her body weak. Too easy to imagine him taking her like this, the way he’d fill her so fully that no amount of arousal would diminish the sweet friction of a demanding claiming.

The ache between her thighs blossomed into a throb. She shifted her body and tugged lightly against his grip on her hair. When his fingers slipped free she sat up and knelt astride one of his thighs, one hand still trapped beneath his and the other smoothing down her body. “Would you like to tell me how I should touch myself, or shall I do what pleases me?”

He grinned, feral and hungry, and the muscles in his thigh flexed under her. “I can make you come just like this.”

Maybe he could, at that. A bit of squirming was all it took before his next thrust rubbed his leg against her so hot and perfect that her mouth fell open. It was hard to decide where to rest her gaze—on the large, rough hand curled around her own, or on Wilder’s face as he watched her, hungry and sure.

His hips bucked against their hands, and he groaned again. “Fuck.” The quickened pace and hard press of his thigh were too much. The tension trembling inside her twisted into an impossible knot, so tight and heavy she thought she’d go mad from it. She got out half of his name on a breathless pant before heat turned to fire.

Then she came, so hard and fast her toes curled and her body jerked. Her free hand smashed against the bed next to his hip as she struggled to keep her balance.

Wilder’s hoarse groan rose in time with her own gasping cry, and his fingers clamped down, jerking their hands up the length of his cock with frantic urgency. Another shudder rocked her body as his thigh clenched. She fisted her free hand in the covers and whispered his name, and he rewarded her with a shout and the hot spill of his seed across her chest.

His mouth crashed to hers in a kiss almost bruising in its intensity. His teeth sank into her bottom lip.

“Satira.”

She smiled against his mouth. “Wilder.”

His chest heaved with a rough laugh. “That was hot as hell.”

“Mmm.” She eased to the side until she was kneeling next to him, then straightened slowly. “I suppose I should be relieved you secured a suite with a bathtub for me.”

“Right.” His head hit the pillow. “Jesus.”

Satira traced idle circles on his chest with her finger, feeling oddly shy considering the sorts of things she’d just done. “You could come with me. If you wanted.”

“To the bath?”

Without the blankets, the room was too cold. She stretched out on her back beside him, head pillowed on his shoulder and her side tucked firmly against the warmth of his body. “Unless you like me like this.”

“It has its appeal.” He reached over and brushed his knuckles up her arm. “Come on. I’ll draw you that bath.”

Experience prompted her, a wisp of memory, from a cocky young bloodhound who’d gone wild at his own scent on her body. She caught his gaze and lifted her fingers and rubbed his seed into her breasts.

Wilder caught her wrist, guiding her fingertips to her parted lips. “The next time I come, I want to be in you.”

Her good intentions must be doomed, because she wanted that too.

Seventy-two hours passed in a blur of uncomfortable tension and unbridled passion.

By day Wilder haunted the inn’s common room, acting as her armed guardian and business manager.

He brought her books to while away the long hours in-between fretting about Nathaniel, and she did him the courtesy of pretending they helped. Nothing could stop her from considering all of the ways Nathaniel could be suffering now. Hurting. Dying.

In her worst moments she wondered if Wilder had any plan at all, but helplessness kept her trapped.

Even at her best, she was still a scientist. Not a fighter. Running off on her own would get her killed more surely than waiting, and Nathaniel would hardly be served by her death.

So she waited. She gathered her nerves every day, until Wilder escorted her downstairs in the evenings to be paraded about like a prized jewel to be won. They dined in a different establishment every night while men made increasingly elaborate offers that Wilder pretended to consider before taking her upstairs.

To bed.

Always his bed, though hers was perhaps more luxurious. But there was something meaningful about the moment she stepped through the dividing door, something that turned him from protective escort to a man hungry to possess her.

And he did. On the first night he stroked every inch of her and teased her until she was begging. She came around his fingers and whimpered helplessly when he slicked his thumb into her ass and made her come again. But he wouldn’t use his cock, not then and not on the second night when he coaxed her astride his face and thrust into her mouth while he drove her to four painfully sharp climaxes.

By the third night she was praying that he’d turn his attention toward procuring a condom, and counting the days frantically on her fingers. Instead he used his fingers, two so thick and wide the stretch danced the line between pleasure and pain until he added his clever tongue and made her see stars. She begged for him to fuck her and he laughed and made her come again. Then he put her on her knees and whispered dirty promises while she worked him with her mouth, illicit words about the way he’d push his cock deep until he was slick and wet, then take her ass.

Which made the fourth evening’s dinner torturous. She hated herself for wanting to escape the cloying confines of the latest common room and retreat to the darkness of a bedroom and a plain mattress. A better woman would be focused on her mission. The man she’d come to rescue, and whatever mysterious

information Wilder swore he would soon have within his grasp. But as long and troubled as her days were, as soon as he walked into her room at night she could think of nothing but the moment when he’d take her back upstairs and drown worry in bliss.

Perhaps wanton behavior bred true.

“You’re distracted,” Wilder murmured, his mouth close to her ear. “You’re starting to look antsy instead of bored.”

She shivered as his breath danced over her skin. Distracted was a mild, ineffectual word. She was frantic. Foolish. She inched her chair to the side and tried to summon a glare. Don’t make it worse.

“Now you just look angry.”

Probably because she was angry—at herself. She reached for the banged-up goblet holding wine so tart it wasn’t hard to let her puckered lips and wrinkled nose pass as disdain.

“That’s my girl.” He leaned back, sweeping his gaze around the room. “I’m starting to wonder if this is going to work.”

At least the words concerned her enough to banish thoughts of sex. She waited until a particularly amorous gunslinger stopped gaping at her, then chanced a reply, moving her lips as little as possible. “Then what next?”

Wilder shrugged. “We try something else.”

They had resources. Their wits. Wilder’s strength. Her stubbornness. She took another slow sip of her wine and gave a small nod.

Several moments later, Wilder tensed beside her as a blond man approached the table, his hat in his hand.

He was tall. Shaggy hair and a rough beard gave him a wild look, and dark, feral eyes made every instinct she possessed sharpen in recognition. She’d seen enough bloodhounds to recognize something in the way they walked, as if they owned the world and had nothing to fear from anyone in it.

The man stopped next to the table and bowed low before glancing up. He winked at her, a sly, amused smile curling his lips as if they shared a secret, then straightened and turned his attention to Wilder. “I have an offer for your lady.”

Wilder kicked out a chair. “My lady will listen.”

His lady wasn’t supposed to understand English, which meant Satira had to keep her expression blank and not let on she knew anything was different about this particular man, aside from her protector’s willingness to let him sit.

The new bloodhound spun the chair around and straddled it, crossing strong arms across the back. “A hundred dollars a week,” he said without preamble. “Her own suite of rooms. Two lady’s maids, three servants. Two nights to herself out of every seven.”

For the first time, Satira understood why a woman might offer her neck to a vampire.

“One-twenty,” Wilder countered. “Two maids, three servants, and a coach of her own.”

“Horse-drawn or steam?”

“At your master’s discretion.”

The stranger glanced at Satira, his gaze sliding over her in a manner a hairsbreadth short of too familiar. “Is your continued presence a condition, or is this a short-term job?” He lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “That point is open for negotiation.” Satira fought the urge to squirm as the man continued to study her. Instead she looked away, cultivating her best bored look as her fingers curled into her skirts under the table. After a long silence, the chair scraped across the floor. “Why don’t we take our negations somewhere a little more private, and see what we can settle upon?”

Wilder turned to her and nodded. “The choice is yours.”

If he was giving her a choice at all, it followed he wanted her to agree. She nodded once and then held out her hand.

Before Wilder could take it, the blond man rose from his chair and closed his gloved fingers around hers with another of those wicked smiles that probably set female hearts aflutter whenever he chose to wield it. Cool, firm lips brushed her knuckles, his mustache tickling the back of her hand before he glanced up. “Archer, at your service, m’lady.”

Wilder’s expression didn’t change, but he kicked the chair again, slamming it into the man’s knee.

Satira was close enough to see his tiny flinch—and the odd little flash of satisfaction across Archer’s face as he released her hand and straightened. “I’ve taken the liberty of securing the private dining room. If you care to escort your lady?”

Wilder rose and pulled back her chair before offering his arm, his sharp gaze still on the blond man.

“If you please.”

It seemed as if every eye followed them as Wilder led her to the far side of the common room. A heavy wooden door opened to reveal a smaller dining room decorated in golds and rich burgundy, from fabric draped haplessly on the walls to the too-large tablecloth that dragged against the floor.

Satira pulled free of Wilder the moment the door closed and braced both hands on her hips, fixing the man with her best glare.

It made Archer laugh. “Well, old man, you can still rile the ladies up, true as you ever did.” Wilder punched him on the arm. “Maybe you should keep your lecherous stares to yourself, Archer.” Her ire rose another notch. “I’m glad the two of you find this amusing.”

“I’m not amused,” Wilder retorted. “I’m about to kick this turd’s ass.” Satira ground her teeth together until her voice came out as clenched as her jaw. “Why?” Archer laughed. “Bloodhounds are territorial, sweet thing.” He tossed his hat onto the table. “Best remember that if you plan to run with one.”

Wilder turned a chair around and sat. “What the hell are you doing here anyway, Arch?”

“Undercover.” Archer sprawled in the opposite chair and lifted both booted feet to the table, heedless of the damage they’d probably do to the precious tablecloth. “Been deep in the Deadlands for six months now.”

“Doing what?”

“Inciting the bloodsucking bastards into killing each other off. Most of them are in a blood feud with at least a half dozen of the other ones. Keeping them stirred up isn’t so hard.” Wilder chuckled. “Sounds like fun.”