Hudson turned to her. "I need to see to the preparations for the dinner. It might be better for them to start the celebration sooner rather than later."
Lake agreed—the less attention focused on them the better—but everything inside of her protested against going into the bedroom without Hudson. Tentatively, she tugged on the sleeve of his shirt. "I, um, I'll wait for you."
Hudson stared down at her, his brown eyes trapping her like a hunter's snare. In one quick movement, his palm was behind her head and his lips were pressed to hers. The kiss was different than the last they'd shared—less hesitant, more sure. Her mouth opened under his, but it was Hudson who tasted her first.
She was still dazed when he broke off and growled in her ear. "You got it all wrong, little dove. It's been me whose been waiting for you."
***
The bedroom was chilly, or maybe it was her. Sweat dampened the shirt under her arms, and yet, her feet and hands tingled with cold. Hudson was sitting on the edge of the bed, face grim. Had the bed always been that large? It had seemed a luxury when she had rested before she'd met her contact. But now…
The Marker was standing by the bedside table, his instruments of torture laid out in a perfect line. A palm-sized tattoo gun was gripped in his hand. Both men were waiting, staring at her.
She had stripped off everything except Hudson's long white shirt, the last thing between her and total vulnerability. If she'd any family left she could've requested her mother or an aunt's presence in the room. Instead, it was just her, naked, between two men.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. And yet, this was her rite of passage. The first principal of The Way—to lay one's soul bare is to earn his name—was taken literally for women. There were no secrets between a man and his wife, thus her "laying bare" as he Marked her as his own.
Her fingers trembled. The buttons on the shirt were so tiny, the button holes even smaller. Minutes passed as she fumbled with her shirt until finally she pushed it off her shoulders and let the garment pool around her feet.
Don't look up.
Even when she heard Hudson's audible gasp.
Don't look up.
"I brought leather straps to tie her to the bed if you think she'll be a thrasher," the Marker said.
That got Lake's attention, but Hudson was already shaking his head. "No need. I'll hold her tight."
She looked at her husband's large hands. She'd seen those hands commit both acts of violence and of tenderness. She wasn't sure if she was better off or not.
"Come here, Lake." Hudson beckoned with his fingers. She couldn't help but notice the strain in his voice. Why? It was she who was getting marked. But this was his first time too. Maybe it meant something to him also.
Courage came in all forms: To watch her parents die, to walk with her head high to her death, to stand in front of her husband with her hands fisted by her sides and stare him in the eye.
What had she thought to find in Hudson's expression? Kindness? Love? There was nothing soft in the narrowing slant of his eyes, the spastic twitch of his jaw muscle, the sinister look of the growth of his beard.
His hands gripped the bedding, the tendons on his forearms protruding as if afraid to touch her. Afraid or desperate? "Hands on my shoulders."
She did as she was told. She twisted his shirt in her fingers, hoping her grip would steady her trembling.
"Straddle me."
A quick inhale of breath was all the time she had to react before his hands were on her. Coarse calluses scratched the delicate skin around her waist as he grasped her from behind. He picked her up as if she weighed nothing and sat her on his lap, parting her knees on either side of his legs.
Chills broke wild over her skin. Her trembling turned into full shakes. Her teeth chattered even though she wasn't as cold now with the sudden closeness of Hudson's body. Heat rolled off him like a roaring fire, a bead of sweat trailed down his temple. If she was winter, he was the sun.
He hissed and pulled her closer. His coarse shirt brushed against her sensitive nipples. Shock coursed through her. She jerked back. His fingers bit into the fleshy part of her thigh, and held her in place. "Don't move," he growled.
"Hudson," the Marker said, his voice seeming to come from a tunnel far, far away. "Give me your full name."
Hudson was breathing hard, they both were. The panting of their breaths competed with the low roar of the generator. She clutched at his shirt, her spine so straight she thought she'd break.
He bent his head. "Hudson Black Creek Fourth Generation Land Owner," he said, his lips finding a tender spot along her breast bone.
She could feel the vibration of his words through her hands against his chest. "You wouldn't consider using your initials, would you?"
"Not a chance."
She groaned.
He touched her skin; her blood quickened in response. Hands trailed down her sides, over her backside, along her thighs then back up again. He whispered something against the dip between her breasts. If she had any faith left she might've believed it had been a prayer. He moaned, or was that her? He looked past her shoulder to the Marker. "Tell me when you're gonna start."
"On the count of three."
The high pitch of the tattoo gun whined closer. Lake turned to look, but Hudson grabbed her chin and forced her straight ahead. "Just look at me. The whole time, right in my eyes."
"One."
The depths of his eyes were like the deep shadows that played across the white dunes of the desert—twisting and turning with the clouds. His palm cupped her backside; his other slipped between her legs…and hovered there.
Embarrassment and heat flushed through her as she realized his intent. She shook her head and tried to squeeze her legs together. "Hudson?"
"Don't move, Lake. Trust me." His breath was coming fast and quick. He widened his legs, making her thighs splay even further apart. Cool air tickled where she was the most hot. Then she felt his hand cupping the most intimate part of her body.
"Two."
She hadn't known this would be part of the ritual. Her heart pounded in her chest. Too much. Too exposed.
"Wait! Hudson, I'm not ready." She was panting now, fear mixed with a need that shivered through her thighs and pulsed with a beat between her legs. Hudson's speared her with his darkened gaze. She watched his throat work as he swallowed.
"Then we'll wait." His jaw hadn't moved when he spoke. The cords in his neck distended under his flushed skin.
"I'm scared."
"I'll never hurt you."
She looked in his eyes and for the first time saw the man. Saw his honor and believed. "I'm ready."
"Three."
A burn sparked the skin on her back, and with a rough thrust of his hand, Hudson's finger was deep inside her.
Too much. Too exposed.
She jerked.
There was a loud slap and a sharp sting on her left bottom cheek.
"Any more of that and I'll get the leather straps out," the Marker growled.
Lake nodded that she understood. But the slap had nothing on the moist ache that rode low in her belly. The want twisted her stomach, tightened the muscles around her lungs.
To lay one's soul bare is to earn his name.
Was she ready to give everything over to this man? No, there had to be another way. She held herself rigid and looked past Hudson's shoulder to the jagged crack in the wall. Her back was on fire. No, not like fire, like she was bitten by thousands of ants.
And then there was Hudson inside her, stroking her, urging her toward something more.
The high-pitch hum stopped. The Marker pulled her skin taunt, and then started up again.
Hudson's name burned across her back, spreading, and then the fire was on her tailbone. On and on it burned.
"I don't mind if you scream," the Marker said. "Just don't move."
She closed her eyes and bit down on her tongue. She'd swallow blood before she'd cry out.
Hudson bent his mouth
to her ear. "Let me help you."
She knew the teachings of The Way. The teachings of her father. One must strip oneself of every defense.
"You don't have to go through this alone."
Let go of every weight.
"Open for me."
Yield and you will be protected.
"Trust me."
She looked at Hudson and searched for anything that would give her reassurance. Desire had darkened his eyes to obsidian. The whitened press of his mouth was desperate. And yet, was there another emotion hidden underneath? She'd never let anyone in. Courage had never been her problem. It was faith that she'd wrestled with. Do this. Trust this. She eased herself lower, spread her thighs wider and let this man, her husband, in.
The thudding of her heart now beat with anticipation. She ran her hand up the back of his head. Fisted her fingers in his hair. Pulled him closer. His lips brushed her skin. Below where Hudson touched her desire flared, and her body shivered with a want she couldn't name. As if reading her mind, Hudson pulled out then stretched her wider with two fingers. In, out. The scent of her arousal cut through the heated smell of the generator, the muskiness of sweat on skin.
Hudson inhaled deep through his nose. A low growl rode his breath.
She couldn't feel the Marker behind her. Her skin had gone numb. But she could feel Hudson. His rhythm never wavered as he stroked the desert heat that burned her belly and scorched her thighs.
She took little sips of air, panicked at the thought of what her body was rushing toward.
"Look at me, Lake." Hudson's voice was thick, straining as if at the breaking point.
But she wouldn't. Not now. Her control was too tentative.
"When I tell you, I want you to come."
Shocked at his words, she stared at him. Sweat had dampened his hair. The muscle in his jaw looked as if chiseled from rock. He looked serious, but he had to be kidding.
She shook her head.
"Try to hold still." His arm wrapped low around her bottom, held her close as his hand pumped a rhythm that she couldn't deny.
She moaned, then clamped her eyes shut, embarrassed. "Please."
But she forgot what she was asking please for.
"Lake, open your eyes."
She shook her head even as her body forgot all shame and strained toward yes.
"Open your damn eyes so I can see you."
She opened her eyes.
"Now come."
And she did.
***
My God, she's beautiful.
The flare of her hips, the flatness of her belly. The fullness of her breasts that had him thinking of summer ripened fruits.
Once, years ago, his generator had broken. He'd taken everything apart to try and fix it. Most of it was done by trial and error, and at one point he'd crossed two wires. The shock that went through him gave him a whole new appreciation for electricity.
Having his wife's naked body sitting on his lap was ten times the jolt.
Hudson watched as she arched her back and ground her hips into his hand. He loved that the paleness of her hair matched the color between her legs. He loved how she tried to stay still as she climaxed but couldn't. He loved how she moaned his name as he worked her up over and over again.
He loved how when the Marker was finally done and gone his wife had laid limp in his lap, his fingers still inside her.
He couldn't wait any longer. He moved her off his lap and on to his bed.
Hudson was past all sense. Blood pumped through his veins, and all he wanted to do was— "Climb to the middle of the bed."
Desperate hunger filled his gut. The primal urge to see his mark on her back clouded out all higher brain functions. "Turn. Around." His voice coming from down deep in his throat.
Lake stilled as she sat on the bed, her long hair covered her breasts, her hands clasped in her lap. Was that a chill that went through her? Was she frightened? "Lake?"
Her gaze floated around the room before finally settling on him. He watched her throat work hard to swallow. She was frightened. Of course, she would be. She'd never done this before, but then neither had he.
What had his father told him? A little fear was good for a successful marriage. But his father had been an idiot. Hadn't his mother chased him out of her bed with a knife more than once? Hadn't his father put a lock on the outside of the bedroom door to keep his mother in so he could sleep without having to worry she'd come and kill him? Hudson looked at Lake. Was that the kind of marriage he wanted?
He cursed. Then looked at his wife, and cursed again. "I need a moment."
He turned and faced the wall, ran his hands over his face. Breathe. He smelled her arousal still on his hands and almost lost his mind.
He was so hot. He ripped off his shirt, wiped his face and under his arms, then threw the shirt in the corner. Breathe. He could do this. No matter how much his cock wanted to do otherwise, he could go slow.
He turned back around and walked toward his wife. He toed off his boots, but kept his pants on. By The Path he knew he needed help in the restraint department. He climbed up and stretched out beside Lake, hands behind his head.
Her eyes grew wide as she followed his movements. "What are you doing?"
"I thought we could talk."
"Talk? About what?"
He patted the bed next to him in invitation. "I thought you could tell me about your parents."
Her face blanched. "I already did."
He nodded. "You did, but how about the truth this time?"
She moved beside him and started to pull back the covers. He stopped her with his hand." Do you mind, little dove? I would love to look at you."
She swallowed, but shook her head. She lay on her stomach beside him, close but not touching. Hudson propped himself up on one elbow. So beautiful. His gaze traced the twin curvatures of her shoulder blades as they bracketed the slender column of her spine. The slight impressions of her ribs as they shadowed her skin, and the smallness of her waist as it flared into the roundness of her hips.
Hips that framed his Mark.
He couldn't help himself. He kissed the spot at the very base of her tailbone.
She startled. "I thought you said you wanted to talk?"
"I'm sorry. I'm having a hard time remembering, little dove."
"Why do you call me that?"
He groaned and fell back, his arm covering his face. "It's foolish. Nothing."
She turned on her side to look at him, and chuckled. "Are you embarrassed? You are. You're blushing."
He pushed himself up and leaned over her. "May The Path help me, but I love your laugh. Do it again, and I'll tell you anything you want."
She laughed in earnest, deep and throaty.
He groaned. The temptation was too much, and he leaned over for a kiss.
Her fingers touched his lips, blocking his advance. "Tell me."
He growled. "It's a stupid bedtime story that mothers tell their sons so that they will treat their wives well."
"I like it already." She smiled.
He groaned again. "You would. Once upon a time, after years at war, a good king gave his each of his soldiers a white dove for their loyal service. Some of the men scoffed at the gift, and either let the bird go, or made dove soup for dinner."
"That's terrible, doves make a horrible soup. They're better in a pie," she said as her white teeth gently worked the nail on her thumb. And Hudson right then and there decided that the sexiest parts on a woman were her lips, teeth and nails.
"Do you want to hear the story or not? Because I can easily become distracted," he said as his finger traced the slight groove of her breast bone.
"No, no, I'm sorry. Please continue."
"But some of the men treated the dove with care. Protected the bird, fed it, and gave it the choicest pieces of food. Each day the soldiers were instructed to open the dove's cage and allow the dove to spread her wings and take flight. If the dove returned then the man was a good master.
But if the dove never returned then the master wasn't an honorable man. When, after many months, if the dove no longer wanted to be apart from her soldier something wonderful would happen."
"What?" Her eyes were bright as her teeth rolled her full bottom lip. He wondered if anyone had taken the time to tell her a bedtime story.
"The white dove turned into a beautiful virgin maid who, of course, the soldier married, and they lived happily ever after."
"That's a good story. I like how the dove had a choice—to either be free or stay." Did her voice catch? "I wish it were true. There were times when I think I would've liked to been a dove. Have my own pair of wings so I could fly away."
How did he tell her he wished the same thing? How did he say that if she'd been his dove he would've made sure she'd never want to leave? Instead, he pulled her closer to him. "Lake, what happened to your parents?"
Her face shut down. In a quick movement, she pulled away from him and flipped on to her stomach. Her face buried into her folded arms. "They were killed in a raid. The Elders found my computer, thought it was my father's and beheaded them in front of me."
He had thought the Elders had something to do with her parents' death. "What about your brother?"
"Vonn was hidden that night. The Rebels found him, and as far as I know he's safe at their camp."
He couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself. His fingers found her hair and brought a strand up to his mouth. "Is that why you fight in the Rebellion?"
"I fight because someone has to fight for the women and children. I fight because I should. I fight because I can. I fight because I have nothing left except the Cause."
"You have me."
She looked up at him. Her blue eyes showing more depth than the endlessness of the sky. "I'm warning you, Hudson. Don't get close to me. Anyone who does ends up dead."
"I'll take my chances." The tip of his finger found the prominence of her spine as he trailed down to her tattoo. "Does it hurt?"
She shook her head. "Not too much."
"Can I kiss it?"
"If you remove your pants—" her voice had a breathy quality to it "—you can do more than that."
Then he was naked behind her, his thumb tracing the H that began his name. The Marker had been schooled in the old tradition. No fancy swirls or embellishments had been added to Hudson's Mark. Just deep green letters in the traditional cloister fashion rode long and broad across the low of her back.
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