Chapter 29 Jasper
TWENTY-NINE
JASPER
Her mouth on mine is all the answer I need—all the permission I’ll ever need.
I was certain we’d lost her forever after her father dragged her back into his gilded cage. Clark Black had put his precious daughter on a leash, and I thought we’d never get the chance to show her she belongs with us.
But now she’s here. She’s here. Mara climbed out of her prison and ran straight into our arms of her own volition.
I break the kiss just long enough to catch her breath in my hand. Her lips are swollen, eyes wide, and I can feel Talon’s grin and Dredyn’s scowl like heat at my back. They’ll talk, they’ll argue, they’ll stake their claims. But not tonight. Not for this.
I lace my fingers through hers and tug. She stumbles half a step, confused. I let a slow smile curl over my mouth and press a kiss to the tips of her fingers, one by one, mocking courtly, but my eyes don’t leave hers.
Her breath shudders.
Then I turn and pull her with me, decisive. Down the hall. Away from their eyes.
“Bedroom,” I sign quickly with one free hand, a flash of motion only she catches. My grin widens. No hesitation. No nerves.
Behind us, I hear Talon’s low chuckle and Dredyn’s sharp exhale, but neither follows. They know. This is mine to begin.
The door gives under my shoulder and swings open. The room is dim, lit by a single lamp that spills gold over a broad king bed.
I guide her inside, shutting out the others. Shutting out everything but the thrum of her pulse against my palm.
Tonight, she’s not the senator’s daughter, not a pawn, not a prisoner. Tonight, she’s ours. And she’s mine first.
The room is dimly lit by a single lamp on the nightstand, casting a golden glow over a large king-sized bed with a dark grey comforter. It’s not lavishly decorated—no personal touches, just neutral tones; a functional masculine space—but the sheets are clean, soft-looking.
I hook my fingers into the hem of her hoodie. “May I?” I sign with my other hand, then nod toward the sweater.
Mara swallows and then lifts her arms slightly in a gesture of consent. Her teeth catch her bottom lip—already swollen from our kiss—and she nods. “Yes,” she breathes.
Carefully, I peel the hoodie up and over her head. She raises her arms to help, and I pull it off. Underneath, she’s in a simple tank top, the strap of a bra visible where the fabric rides down the slope of her shoulder.
Her arms come down, instinctively moving to cover herself, but I catch her wrists gently.
I shake my head once, trying to tell her silently, “Don’t hide.
” Holding both of her delicate wrists in my hands, I raise them above her head.
I guide her palms until they press flat against the wall behind her, pinning her there lightly.
Her chest heaves and her eyes flash with surprise at the motion.
I pause, searching her face for any sign of panic. But Mara doesn’t look frightened. If anything, her cheeks flush deeper and her lips part in a soft pant.
She’s excited.
She likes when I take control. My cock swells at the realization.
“Breathe,” I whisper against her skin before I even realize I’ve spoken aloud. It’s the first word I’ve said since I spoke to her in the house before I kissed her. My voice is husky from disuse, barely more than a rumble.
I release her hands, trusting she’ll keep them there for now, and trail my fingertips down the length of her arms slowly—goose bumps rise under my touch. I continue down her sides, skimming over her waist and the flare of her hips. Mara inhales sharply, her stomach tensing.
I shift my weight and let my knees hit the floor.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. Her eyes flare wide—she isn’t used to me talking.
No one is. And that’s how I like it. The second my knees touch, she reaches for me, fingers drifting from the wall as if pulled by gravity, then stopping, remembering my touch that put them there.
My palms settle on the denim of her jeans, right at the curve of her thighs. I slide my hands up until the waistband is under my fingers. She watches me the whole time, breath hitching. When our eyes lock she gives me a tiny, fierce nod. “I’m okay,” she whispers.
I press a kiss to the soft line where jeans meet skin, over the fabric, then lift the waistband with two fingers and start to work the button free.
When the denim loosens I ease the jeans down over the swell of her hips, feeling the heat through cotton as they slip past the soft curve of her hip bones.
She lifts one foot to help me, steadying herself with both hands on my shoulders.
The trust in that small motion is almost unbearable.
I peel the jeans down until they puddle around her ankles, then slide them off.
Her underwear is there—simple, black—and for the briefest second I watch, memorizing the smallness of it, the way it clings to her.
My thumbs hook under the elastic and I slow, giving her the last second to change her mind. She doesn’t. Instead, her fingers tighten once on my shoulders, grounding me, and she leans down just enough to whisper, “Do it.”
It’s all the permission I need.
I slide the fabric down, past her knees, over her calves, and set it aside.
The air strikes the bare skin of her thighs and there it is—the faint, sweet heat of her.
I brush my palms up the backs of her calves, lift her slightly, and press a kiss to the front of her thigh, right where the muscle meets softness.
Her response is immediate—a soft gasp, her body tilting toward me as if seeking more.
I give her what she silently asks for, trailing gentle kisses along the inside of one thigh, then the other.
Each brush of my lips draws a new little sound from her throat.
They’re breathy, hitched, and they’re driving me mad with need.
But I hold back the storm inside me. I want her dripping with anticipation before I take her first.
With one last kiss just above her knee, I rise to my feet again, lifting myself to tower over her smaller frame. In one smooth movement, I wrap an arm around her lower back and sweep her up into my arms. A tiny yelp of surprise escapes her, and she grabs onto my shoulders instinctively.
I carry her the few steps to the bed and set her down gently on the edge of it.
The mattress dips under her weight. Mara scoots back reflexively, further onto the bed, and I follow, crawling over her until I end up with her lying on her back against the pillows, and me hovering over her on all fours.
Her hair fans out against the dark sheets, midnight silk on charcoal. Her camisole strap has slid off one shoulder, revealing an expanse of smooth skin and the edge of a tattoo peeking out—the tail of that snake tattoo, I think.
I dip my head and kiss her again. Mara melts beneath me, her hands finding the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair once more. I kiss her until she’s sighing against my mouth and her body relaxes into the mattress.
Then I begin to travel downward, dragging my lips along her jaw and down her throat. When I flick my tongue against the pulse point there, her pulse throbs rapidly under the delicate skin. She’s so alive, so vibrant and fragile. I want to consume her and shield her all at once.
My hand finds the hem of her camisole and slides beneath it, meeting warm, soft skin. I inch upward, caressing the curve of her waist, her ribcage. Mara arches slightly, unconsciously urging my touch higher. Her silent plea is answered when I push the silky camisole up, exposing her breasts.
Her breasts are perfect for her petite frame—full but soft, nipples already puckered.
“Beautiful.”
Mara’s cheeks flush even deeper, and she makes a half-hiding motion with her arm. I catch her wrist mid-air and gently pin it back to the bed. My eyes flick up to hers and I give a small shake of my head.
“Let me see you.”
Her arm relaxes, and she nods, trusting me.
I bend down and press soft kisses across the swell of her right breast, then around the left.
I avoid the nipple for now, teasing, savoring the little mewls she makes as I take my time.
My hand mirrors my mouth’s path on the opposite side, thumb circling her other nipple slowly.
When I finally close my lips around one tight peak, Mara’s whole body jerks and she cries out.
A startled, airy “Oh!” that she quickly bites back.
I hum in approval, releasing her nipple with a gentle pop, only to lick a broad stripe across it. “Don’t hold back. We want to hear you.”
She whimpers as I suckle her left nipple, her back arching off the bed. I feel her legs shift, one of her knees brushing against my hip as if she can’t get comfortable under this onslaught of new sensations. Her free hand (the one I’m not pinning) clutches the sheets.
Satisfied that she’s thoroughly sensitized, I release her wrists and sit up slightly.
“Mara,” I sign her name against her collarbone, tracing the letters with my fingertip in a gentle pattern so she knows I’m still speaking to her even when my voice fails me.
Her heavy-lidded eyes open wider, focusing on me.
I trail my hand down between her breasts, over her belly. Her camisole is bunched up above her chest now, so my fingers skim directly along her skin.
My pants have become nearly unbearable, my erection straining painfully against the zipper. But I ignore my own discomfort for now. This is about her first time. I want her trembling and pleading before I even think of taking her.
I settle between her parted legs, my knees sinking into the mattress. One of her legs is bent at the knee, the other lies slightly askew. Gently, I grasp her knees, urging them wider. “Open for me.”
Her eyes lock onto mine as she lets her thighs fall open further, fully exposing herself to my gaze. To banish any doubt from her mind, I run my hands up and down her outer thighs in a soothing caress.