9. Maple
NINE
MAPLE
Maple's mind went blank at that moment. Not the usual, focused blankness of deep concentration when she was translating a text or examining a fragment. This was a white-hot stillness that swept every rational thought aside and left only sensation in its wake.
She was kissing a dragon shifter.
The absurdity of it should have made her pause. But the woman in her—the part she'd buried beneath layers of practicality and skepticism—was too busy being utterly consumed.
His mouth moved against hers with a hunger that felt ancient, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before delving deeper.
The taste of him was dark and complex, like spiced wine and desert air after a rain.
One of his hands remained tangled in her hair, tilting her head to deepen the angle, while the other spread wide across the small of her back, pressing her flush against the solid wall of his chest.
Every cell in her body seemed to vibrate in recognition. It wasn't just attraction; it was a deep, resonant knowing, as if her very soul had been waiting for this particular man.
Fated mate.
The words echoed in the parts of her mind still capable of thought, but they felt inadequate. This was something older than language, a connection that bypassed logic and went straight to her soul.
Before she could question the impulsivity, her fingers found the first button of his shirt.
This is insane. You met him just this morning.
But her hands didn't care. They worked with a will of their own, undoing button after button, revealing an expanse of skin that made her breath hitch.
He was carved for dominance and warmed by the sun, his chest broad and sculpted, the ridges of his abdomen taut under her exploring palms. As she pushed the white silk off his shoulders, his muscles flexed, but the tension wasn't defensive—it was anticipation, a predator softening under the touch of the one creature in the world he wouldn't hunt.
He made a low, rough sound against her lips as her hands roamed his bare skin, and then his own hands were on the thin straps of her green sundress. He pushed them down her shoulders in one slow, deliberate motion. Cool air washed over her skin, followed immediately by the heat of his gaze.
She hadn't worn a bra tonight, why she couldn't say.
The dress pooled at her waist, leaving her breasts bare to him.
His eyes—those impossible blue eyes that had flashed with gold in Bram's office—darkened to a stormy midnight.
The hunger in them wasn't polite or practiced; it was raw, primal, and it sent a bolt of pure heat straight to her core.
She felt herself grow slick between her thighs, an instant, aching wetness that was both embarrassing and exhilarating.
"Maple," he growled, her name sounding like a sacred thing in his ruined voice.
He didn't wait for a reply. He bent his head, his mouth closing over one tightened peak.
The sensation was so acute, so perfect, that a sharp gasp tore from her throat.
His tongue circled, then suckled, and sparks shot down her spine to gather in a throbbing pulse low in her belly.
He lavished the same devastating attention on her other breast, his teeth grazing with just enough edge to make her cry out and arch into him.
Her hands fumbled for his belt. The leather was thick, the buckle heavy and cool.
He watched her struggle for a moment, his breath hot against her damp skin, before his larger hands covered hers.
Together, they undid the buckle, the button of his slacks, the closure of his boxers, until everything fell away.
Oh, wow.
He was magnificent. Thick and hard and proud, the evidence of his desire for her as undeniable as the claim marker's glow.
A flush of pure, feminine hunger darkened her own cheeks.
She'd seen classical sculptures, studied anatomical perfection in art, but this was living artistry, and he was all for her.
She pushed her dress and lace panties she wore the rest of the way down, kicking off her sandals as he stepped out of his trousers and shoes.
Then they were just skin and heat and breath in the cavernous formal dining room, surrounded by centuries of history that suddenly felt like it had all been leading to this one, gloriously bare moment.
He moved first, his hands closing around her waist. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, and her legs wrapped instinctively around his hips, and her arms around his neck.
He carried her the few steps to the massive mahogany table and laid her back upon its polished surface.
The wood was cool against her heated skin as he followed her down, his mouth finding her throat, then her collarbone, and then the swell of her breasts again.
She was squirming now, primal need coiling tight inside her. She reached between them, her fingers wrapping around his large cock that was velvety steel and pulsing with heat. She guided him to her entrance, the broad head pressing against her slick heat.
He went still above her, his body trembling with the effort. His eyes searched hers, giving her one last chance, one final moment of sanity.
It was the easiest choice she'd ever made.
"I need you." The words were raw, honest, stripped of all her usual defenses.
A shudder wracked his powerful frame. That was all the permission he required.
Then he pressed forward, filling her with a slow, relentless stretch that stole the air from her lungs.
She was tight, and he was so large, the sensation bordering on overwhelming.
But it was a perfect fullness, a completion that made her body sing as he seated himself fully, buried to the hilt.
"You feel…" He couldn't finish, just shook his head, his forehead resting against hers.
"Just move, please," she whispered, her nails digging into the hard planes of his shoulders.
He obeyed. His first thrust was a slow, deliberate withdrawal followed by an even slower, deeper return. The friction was exquisite, a building fire of pure pleasure. He soon found a rhythm, each stroke hitting a spot deep inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids.
But it was more than physical. The bond—that impossible, invisible tether—seemed to amplify everything. She could feel the edge of his control, the depth of his hunger, the wonder tangled with his fear. It all poured into her as her pleasure mounted.
"More," she begged, the word foreign on her pragmatic tongue. "Please, Rune, I need more…"
He growled, the sound purely animal, and his pace changed.
The slow, deep strokes became powerful, driving pistons.
The table groaned in protest beneath them, the sturdy mahogany shuddering under the force of his thrusts.
She didn't care if the whole thing broke, all she cared about was the perfect heat building between them.
She wrapped her legs higher around him, locking her ankles, meeting each desperate plunge with a roll of her hips.
"Let go," he commanded, his voice rough against her ear. "I want to feel you come apart for me."
It was both a demand and a gift. The permission she didn't know she needed.
The orgasm didn't crest—it detonated. It ripped through her body with seismic force, wringing a sobbing cry from her throat.
Her back arched off the table, her inner muscles clenching and fluttering around him in violent, rhythmic pulses.
The intensity was shattering, a pleasure so profound it blurred the line between pain and ecstasy.
Her convulsions tipped him over the edge.
With one final, deep thrust that seemed to reach her soul, he buried himself inside her and groaned loudly.
Heat flooded her, his release pulsing in time with the aftershocks still quaking through her.
His big body shuddered above her before collapsing with a weight that was both crushing and comforting.
He buried his face against her neck, his breath hot and ragged on her skin. They lay tangled on the dining table, sweat-slicked and trembling, as the waves gradually receded.
Maple stared up at the ornate ceiling, her mind slowly piecing itself back together around one irrevocable truth.
There's no going back from this.
Maple's fingers traced lazy patterns across the broad expanse of Rune's back, her legs still wrapped around his hips as aftershocks rippled through her body.
The mahogany table beneath her was warm now, heated by their passion, and she could feel his uneven breath against her throat as if he was trying to piece himself back together.
This is what I've been missing my entire life.
The thought drifted through her mind unbidden, followed by a bone-deep satisfaction that had nothing to do with physical release. This connection—this rightness—felt like coming home after decades of wandering in the wilderness.
But then his muscles went rigid beneath her touch.
The change was instant and jarring. One moment he was melting into her, his body still joined with hers in the most intimate way possible, and the next he was pulling back like she'd burned him.
His eyes—those impossibly blue eyes that had been dark with desire seconds before—were wide with something that looked dangerously close to terror.
"What's wrong?" The words tumbled out, her voice still breathless and raw.
He pulled out of her with an abruptness that made her gasp, the loss of connection disorienting. Cool air rushed between them as he stepped back, his face a mask of barely controlled panic.
"I shouldn't have done that."
The words hit her like a slap. She watched in stunned silence as he grabbed his clothes from the floor, his movements sharp and jerky, nothing like the controlled predator she'd come to know.
"Rune, wait—"
But he was already backing toward the dining room entrance, clutching his clothes against his chest like armor. The look he gave her was wild, desperate, the look of a man who'd just realized he'd walked into a trap of his own making.
"This was a mistake."
And then he was gone, leaving her naked and confused on his dining table, the echo of his footsteps disappearing down the corridor.
Maple stared at the empty doorway for a long moment, her mind struggling to process what had just happened. The man who'd just worshipped her body, who'd looked at her like she was his salvation, had fled like she was his damnation.
She sat up slowly, her body protesting the movement. Everything ached in the most delicious way, a reminder of how thoroughly he'd claimed her just moments before. But the physical satisfaction was rapidly being overshadowed by a cocktail of confusion and hurt that made her chest tight.
"God, Maple, what got into you?"
The words echoed in the empty dining room as she slid off the table, her legs unsteady. She caught sight of herself in the reflection of a silver serving tray—hair wild, lips swollen, skin flushed and marked by his hands—and felt heat flood her cheeks.
She'd just thrown herself at a man, a dragon shifter, she'd known for less than twenty-four hours. An Alpha who'd told her that they were fated mates, whatever that meant, and she'd responded by climbing him like a tree.
Her green sundress lay on the floor beside her lace panties, and she grabbed them with more force than necessary. The fabric was wrinkled, evidence of their desperate haste, and she pulled it over her body with fingers that trembled.
He's right. You shouldn't have done that.
But even as the logical part of her mind tried to reassert control, her body was already mourning the loss of his touch. The connection she'd felt—that bone-deep recognition—hadn't been imagination. It had been real, powerful, and undeniable.
And he'd run from it like it was poison.
Maple made her way through the mansion's corridors on unsteady legs, her bare feet silent against the marble floors. The grand staircase loomed before her, and she climbed it slowly, each step a reminder of what had just transpired between them.
He probably thinks I'm some desperate archaeologist who throws herself at powerful men.
The thought made her stomach clench with embarrassment. She'd spent years building a reputation for being professional, controlled, unflappable. And in one evening, she'd destroyed all of that by letting her body override her brain.
Her guest suite felt like a refuge when she finally reached it, and she closed the door behind her with a soft click.
The sitting area was exactly as she'd left it—elegant, pristine, untouched by the chaos that had just unfolded downstairs.
She moved through the archway to the bedroom, her steps purposeful now.
Kneeling beside the massive four-poster bed, she reached underneath and pulled out the small treasure chest that contained the claim marker.
The red stone seemed to pulse stronger with inner light as she lifted it from its cloth wrapping, and the moment her fingers made contact with its smooth surface, warmth flooded through her body. Not the overwhelming heat that had plagued her yesterday, but something gentler, more familiar.
This thing wasn't just some dragon artifact I was chasing.
The realization hit her with startling clarity as she cradled the claim marker in her palms. For years, she'd told herself she was hunting for proof that dragons existed, that her childhood fantasies had some basis in reality. But this—this was so much more than archaeological discovery.
This was destiny. Connection. The invisible thread that had been pulling her toward this place, toward Rune, her entire life.
The warmth spreading through her body now was the same sensation she'd felt when Rune touched her, when he'd held her against him and made her feel complete for the first time in her life.
The claim marker wasn't just reacting to her—it was reflecting the bond between them, the connection he was so terrified to acknowledge.
If he thinks he's going to push me away that easily, he's got another thing coming.
The thought surprised her with its conviction. This morning, before she'd known this world existed, she'd been desperate to unbind herself from the marker's influence. She'd wanted her normal, safe, predictable life back.
Now, after one taste of what it felt like to be truly seen, truly wanted, truly connected to another soul, the idea of losing it made her chest ache with something close to terror.
She'd spent her entire adult life being told that her passions were impractical, that her dreams were childish fantasies. Harrison had wanted her to be smaller, safer, more manageable. Her parents had taught her that wonder was embarrassing.
But Rune—despite his fears, despite his desperate flight from their connection—looked at her like she was magnificent. Like her curiosity was a gift rather than a burden. Like the parts of herself she'd learned to hide were exactly what made her precious.
I'm not giving that up without a fight.