12. Luna
Chapter 12
Luna
I squeal as Angus scoops me off my feet, one strong arm under my knees, the other cradling my back like I’m something precious. “W-what are you doing?”
“Making love to my wife. In my bed. Our bed,” he corrects himself as he strides across the hall to his bedroom. His boots thud softly against the wood floor. He’s so sure. So solid. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.
He shoulders the door open like it’s nothing and kicks it closed behind him with a final, heavy thud. The sound is final. Private. Possessive.
I’m vaguely aware of dark furniture and the scent of sandalwood and leather as he places me on the edge of the bed—his bed. The mattress dips beneath my weight, soft but supportive. A plaid shirt is draped over a chair, a coiled belt on the dresser, and spurs hang from a hook on the wall. The whole place smells like him—clean sweat, sun-warmed cotton, and woodsmoke.
We’re both silent for a moment. The air is thick and charged.
Then he kneels in front of me.
Big, broad, six-foot-something cowboy on his knees like I’m church and he’s begging forgiveness.
He slides his hands up my thighs, slow and reverent, barely leashed hunger in the way his fingers flex against my skin. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”
My throat tightens. “I want you to touch me like you did on our wedding night.”
His jaw ticks. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” His voice lowers, soft but rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. “I’m all yours, from now to the grave. You want gentle, I’ll go slow. You want it rough, I’ll wreck you. Just say the word.”
I reach for him, threading my fingers into the thick, dark waves at the back of his head. “All of it. I want all of it, but only with you. And I’m all yours, husband.”
He groans like I’ve punched the air out of him. “Fuck, Luna…”
Then he surges up and kisses me like he’s starving . His mouth claims mine with a ferocity that makes my toes curl, one hand tangling in my hair, the other palming my hip like he owns me. Which he does. But I own him too.
His tongue slides deep into my mouth, and I whimper, arching into him as he presses me backward onto the bed.
“Need you,” he mutters into my mouth, voice cracked and ragged. “God, I need you so fucking bad it’s making me insane.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, tugging him closer until his weight presses me into the mattress, and my thighs fall open for him instinctively.
“You drive me crazy in the best way possible,” I breathe. “I love you so much it hurts.”
Yeah, I said it first. And it feels raw and terrifying and perfect. I pull my heart out and hand it to him—no instructions, no guarantees.
His breath catches. His whole body stills. Then he pulls back to look down at me. His eyes are wild—dark, hungry, and glassy with emotion. “You’re my whole damn world, Luna. I’d burn down this house to keep you warm.”
I smile, breathless. “Okay, let’s not go that far. The whole point of this”—I wave a finger between us—“was to save the house, remember?”
His grin is spontaneous and beautiful . “Fine. Let’s set the sheets on fire instead, like we did on our wedding night.”
My breath catches, heat shooting straight between my legs. “Angus…”
He dips his head, lips brushing mine with infuriating softness. “I may have married you because of a sub-clause in a will, but I was already halfway in love with you when you fixed those fence posts. By the time you helped deliver that foal, it was game over. You were elbow-deep in horse, but you looked so damn fierce and beautiful.”
My heart does something stupid and fluttery in my chest. “I’m not sure when it happened for me. Probably the fourth or fifth time you grunted at me.”
He lets out a low, husky laugh. “So you liked my manly, rugged love language.”
I roll my eyes. “If ‘ugh’ and ‘hmph’ count as love language, then yeah—you swept me off my feet.”
He chuckles again, but heat simmers behind his smile. “You liked my grunts just fine when I was buried inside you on our wedding night.”
“Angus,” I whisper, thighs clenching around his hips.
His gaze darkens. “Say my name like that again, Mrs. Sutton.”
“Angus.”
A growl vibrates in his chest. “Fuck. You don’t even know what that does to me.”
I reach for the buttons on his shirt, fingers trembling but greedy. “Take it off,” I whisper. “I want skin. I want you.”
He rips it over his head, tossing it aside.
My breath catches.
That hard, work-hewn chest—familiar now, but no less breathtaking—bears the proof of the life he lived before me. Scars crisscross his torso, some faded silver, others more recent, all of them carved into muscle thick from years of labor and war. One long line slashes over his ribs, another jagged scar near his shoulder, and the bullet wound puckered beneath his collarbone.
The room was dim when we made love in the dark on our wedding night, the shape of him more felt than seen. But now, in the lamplight, I see him clearly for the first time.
And he’s devastating.
Broken in places but beautiful. Alive.
I trace the closest scar with my fingertip. He flinches slightly.
I bite my lip. “Is it… Are you okay with me touching them?”
His voice is low, raw. “They’re yours to touch. All of me is.”
I lean up and press a kiss over the worst of them. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper.
He exhales like I knocked the wind out of him. “Luna…”
The moment crackles like a dying fire roaring back to life.
My gaze continues its journey, following the dusting of dark hair on his chest as it trails down his stomach to the waistband of his jeans—where I know he’s thick, ready, and straining for me.
He stands quickly, working fast—boots kicked off, jeans peeled down in one rough motion—and then he’s standing there in his briefs, cock straining, the fabric barely containing him.
He climbs back over me, tugging my sweatshirt off and sucking in a breath when he sees I’m bare beneath. “So damn perfect,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along the curve of my breast. “God, I’ve missed these,” he adds before he captures my nipple between his lips.
I gasp and arch into him, tugging on his hair. “You’re going to make me come too soon, cowboy.”
He lifts his head and grins, but it’s dark. Wicked. Possessive. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m gonna make you forget your own name. I’m gonna fuck every thought out of your pretty head until all you can say is my name .”
I whimper. Heat pools low in my belly.
He kisses a trail down my stomach, pausing to lick the curve of my navel. “Your skin’s so soft here,” he says like I’m sacred and it would kill him not to worship every inch.
When he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my sweatpants, I lift my hips to help him, shameless and aching.
“Spread for me,” he murmurs, settling between my thighs.
I hesitate, glancing toward the door. “Angus… what if someone hears us?”
He looks up, eyes dark and full of filthy promise. “Then they’ll know who’s making you moan. Let ‘em. You’re my wife. My cunt. My noises.”
My cheeks burn at his filthy words, but the throb between my legs is anything but shy. My legs fall wider.
He groans as his gaze fixes on my sex. “That’s it. So ripe and ready for me.”
And then he’s there , tongue dragging up my slit, licking and sucking with greedy, hungry noises that make me writhe.
When he slips a thick finger inside, curling just right, I cry out and grab a fistful of sheets.
“That’s it. So fuckin’ tight. So good. You want another?”
“Yes. Please.”
He gives it to me. Two fingers now, scissoring, opening me up, tongue still flicking my clit.
“God, I love watching you fall apart. You gonna come on my face, darlin’? Gonna make me smell like you for the rest of the night?”
I nod frantically. Dear God, where has this dirty-talking man come from? Is this what happens when a man of few words decides to use them all at once?
My whole body trembles, pleasure coiling so tight I can’t speak.
And then he stops.
“Angus,” I gasp, dazed and needy. “Why did you?—”
“I want to come inside you,” he growls, climbing up my body again. “I want to come where I belong.”
Now he decides to wreck me with his words? Our heart-to-heart has unleashed a word monster. A walking, grunting sexual thesaurus.
I blink up at him, breathless. “You do realize you’ve said more in the last five minutes than in the first two weeks of our marriage, right?”
He smirks as his cock brushes my entrance. “Turns out I have a lot to say when I get you naked.”
He kisses me, dirty and deep, and I taste myself on his tongue. Then he pushes his boxers down and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, leaking.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he rasps, lining up at my entrance. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours,” I whisper. “Always.”
He sinks in deep and slow, every inch a stretch that makes my head fall back with a cry. “Oh, God…”
“Fuck,” he groans. “You feel like a dream. So hot. So wet. You were made for me, Luna.”
I wrap my legs around him as he bottoms out, his cock buried so deep I swear I can feel him prodding one of my kidneys.
“You make me feel so full,” I whisper, shaking beneath him. “So safe. I never want to leave this bed.”
“You won’t ,” he growls, cupping my face. “You’re mine. You hear me? My wife. My home.”
Then he moves. Long, deep strokes that make the headboard knock against the wall and tear moans from my throat.
“You hear yourself?” he murmurs, voice rough. “All those little sounds are music . That whimper right there—that’s my favorite.”
I dig my nails into his back. “Harder. Please.”
He growls like an animal and slams into me, faster now, sweat slicking his chest, his eyes locked on mine like he needs to watch me come.
“You close, love? Need to feel you squeeze my cock while I’m deep inside. Need to come with you. Fill you, claim you all over again.”
“Yes,” I sob. “Please, Angus. Don’t stop.”
But he does, the bastard.
I moan in frustration when he pulls out of me, unannounced and swift.
He flips me onto my stomach. “Hands and knees, Luna.”
I bite my lip but do as he orders, positioning my body as he watches.
“Like this?” I whisper, looking at him over my shoulder.
“Perfect,” he growls, his throat bobbing on a swallow. “So fucking perfect.”
I flush, pleased. My eyes drop to his cock, shimmering with my slickness. He doesn’t leave me aching for long, kneeling behind me.
“ Ooooh! ” I cry out as he slides inside me. Deep. Deeper than before.
“Okay?” Angus rasps behind me. “Too much?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s good. So good.”
He grips my hips harder, slowly withdrawing and thrusting forward again as he pulls my hips back. Our flesh makes a loud slapping noise as he plunges deep.
“Angus!”
With his name on my lips, he drives into my body. Again. Again. My breath grows ragged as I clench around him, little moans huffing from my throat with each punch of his hips.
“Mine,” Angus growls. “My wife.”
It feels so right because we were always meant for this.
“Tell me,” my husband demands. “Tell me you’re mine. That you’ll never leave me.”
I hear the vulnerability in his voice. I know what he’s asking. Not just Are you mine? But Will you stay when it gets hard? Will you stay when I’m fighting my way out of the darkness?
“Yours,” I pant, my arms shaking as I turn my head to meet his eyes. “Always.”
My vow triggers my release, sudden and shocking, catching me by surprise. I can’t contain my shuddering moan as he thrusts into me, his rhythm choppy now. I’m barely aware of his choked groan as he stills and empties inside me. His fingers grip my hips, no doubt leaving bruises, but I don’t care. The slight discomfort only amplifies the pleasure pulsing through me, beading my nipples and pulling every muscle taut.
My arms finally give out as my orgasm fades. Angus catches me before I face-plant the mattress, hauling me up so my back is to his chest. He’s still pulsing inside me, every throb a reminder of what we just did. Cupping my chin, he turns my face to his, kissing me deeply, our tongues sliding and caressing.
Finally, we collapse to the bed together, panting, our limbs tangled. I’m breathless, full of him. His chest heaves against mine, his skin hot and damp.
We lie tangled for a moment, hearts thudding in sync, the storm forgotten.
I run a hand down his back, and he exhales like I’m the safest thing he knows.
Then something tugs at his focus. His gaze shifts and sharpens.
“Luna…” His voice drops with concern. He sits up straighter. “Your hand.”
I follow his eyes, frowning—and wince. The bandage I wrapped earlier is blotched with fresh blood.
“It’s nothing,” I say, repeating my earlier words.
But Angus doesn’t let it go. “Let me see.”
I try to wave him off. He doesn’t budge.
And honestly? A small part of me doesn’t want him to. I like having him take care of me. Crave it.
He gently takes my hand, big fingers surprisingly careful as he peels back the gauze. I watch his jaw tighten when he sees the angry cut beneath, still oozing at the edges.
He mutters something under his breath and reaches for the nightstand drawer, pulling out a first aid kit. Because of course my husband has one there. You can take the man out of the SEALs…
“Stay still,” he murmurs, already dabbing the cut with antiseptic.
It stings, and I flinch. “You’re fussing,” I mumble.
“I’m fixing,” he counters without missing a beat. “There’s a difference.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t pull away. His brow furrows with concentration like he’s patching a bullet wound, not a scrape. It’s ridiculous. It’s sweet. It’s him. A side of him it seems only I’m privy to.
When he finishes wrapping my hand in fresh gauze, he lifts it to his mouth and presses a kiss to the bandage.
“All set,” he whispers. “Good as new.”
Something warm and weightless swells in my chest.
I reach for him with my other hand, tugging him under the covers where he belongs. He doesn’t resist. He folds around me like he was always meant to be there.
He brushes my hair back and kisses my forehead. “I’m sorry I pushed you away.”
I smile. “You’ve more than made up for it.”
“Good,” he says, pulling me close. “Because I plan on round two before sunrise. Quiet this time so we don’t scandalize Henry and Shay.”
I yawn, blissful and sore, listening to the soothing thud of his heart. The steady thrum of home.