by Anthology
“Yes,” he said, completely conversationally. “I’m going to steal you from that chair right there, throw you over my shoulder, and carry you to my bedroom. Then I’ll lay you down on the bed and take you, hard and fast.” He sniffed the air like he was taste-testing a new bottle of scotch. “I know you’re wet. I can smell it.”
Bel was paralyzed, feeling like she should leave, but knowing somehow that she wouldn’t. That whatever happened tonight, she wouldn’t run away. Not from her feelings and not from him.
He stood up, the wood of the stump chair moaning against the hardwood floors as he pushed it backward. “Now” – he motioned to the doorway – “if you’d like to leave, Isabella, you’re welcome to. I won’t stop you, but if you stay, the only promise I can make is that you won’t be leaving this room in any way but over my shoulder.”
What am I doing?
Bel stood up too, and she watched with a strange kind of satisfaction as he flinched. He didn’t want her to go. He needed her badly. She straightened her shoulders, her nervousness falling away.
He was counting on her being afraid so he could feel as if he had control. He should’ve tried a different strategy.
She sashayed around the table, making sure to sway her hips as she did. Then, gingerly, she laid a hand on his chest. “Oops.” She tilted her head, making sure that it gave him a glimpse of her shoulders and the cleavage beneath.
He stood completely still for a moment, silent, and Bel wondered if he was going to do anything at all. She shook her head and started to move her hand away, but his hand shot out and captured her own. Then, before Bel could even process it, he was levering her over his shoulder in some kind of weird judo move.
Bel meeped in surprise. Just how strong was he?
She meeped again when his other hand made contact with her butt, toying with its full cheeks. Then he adjusted her so that his mouth was right near her ear and said, “I never break my word.”
Anxiety and desire drained all coherency from Bel until all she could do was say, “Mmm.” There was no denying it; she was in his hands now. Literally and figuratively. She’d probably have to buy new panties tomorrow. These were now officially soaked.
Samson turned and kicked the kitchen door open. Bel assumed he’d set her down, but no; he managed to haul her up a full flight of stairs and down yet another hallway that Bel didn’t remember existing, until they were standing in front of a dark, tall door Bel had never seen before.
Her head pounded with blood, but she kept her eyes open. Each time she closed them, the strangest fantasies flitted through her head. The man who had kissed her in the greenhouse all those years ago with Samson’s face, Samson as a wolf, Samson, Samson, Samson. She knew none of the visions was true, but she didn’t mind.
Somehow he had infiltrated every part of her: her mind, her body, and now, she realized as she stared at the door, her heart.
This time Samson didn’t kick in the door, but rested his hand on the doorknob. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Bel replied.
11
Samson threw her down on his bed, enjoying her little exhalation of surprise as she hit the comforter. She still looked far too calm given what he was about to do to her. One of her hands flirted with the strap of her dress, pushing it down to reveal the curve of her creamy shoulder.
“Enough,” Samson said. Then he slid himself over her and pinned both of her hands above her head with one of his own. Giggling, she struggled playfully, causing one of her breasts to pop out from the yellow fabric.
Samson growled and ducked his head to suck on one of her nipples.
Her giggles turned into a moan. Next, he would make her scream.
But first, clothes. With his free hand, he casually tore the dress from her body like it was tissue paper. Her eyes widened delightfully, although they were still partly concealed by her glasses. The glasses were next to go, and he put them on the bedside table.
“Hey,” she protested, her voice thick with lust, “now I can’t see.”
“Good.” He nipped her neck. “You’ll just have to feel what I’m going to do to you when I take you.” He lowered his body farther onto hers, making sure she could feel his full length pressing up against her entrance. “When I make you mine.”
He smiled as the scent of her arousal wafted up to his nose. Confident that she wouldn’t be escaping his bed anytime soon, he released her arms and slid down between her thighs. Slowly, he trailed his fingers up to the waistband of her panties. Her last defense.
She arched her back, pushing her sweet center closer to his lips. Then he took her underwear between his teeth and tugged them down. Her knees shook. He stroked her leg to calm her as his tongue darted out and licked the edges of her core.
Holy Astrum, she tasted like home.
Her hips bucked.
He growled. “Don’t make me tie you down.”
Then he pressed his tongue deeper into her, soliciting another reaction. He liked the idea of binding her to his bed forever, and if he could trick her into making it a reality, he would.
She moaned loudly and pushed her sex farther into his face. Naughty girl.
Samson bolted upright and away. The flavor of her still lingered. He made eye contact with his mate and licked his lips so she’d know how good she tasted. Then he turned to flick on the lamp on his bedside table. He’d need more light to be able to tie the proper knots to keep her secured to his bed.
As light flooded the room, Isabella contracted, pulling his comforter up around her body to cover herself.
Samson’s wolf snarled in anger. With curves like Isabella had, she should’ve felt no shame for her body. “Why are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding,” she said. “I’m cold.”
“I’ve tasted your heat,” Samson said. “I know you’re not cold.” He prowled around the perimeter of the mattress, trying to decide from where he could yank the comforter free with the most ease.
“I would guess that you’re ashamed. Probably because of the foolish tendencies of hu — men your own age, who have no taste, and try to prop up their own small egos by bringing beautiful women like you down.”
Isabella’s fingers fell away from the comforter. “Actually, no. I know most guys are tools. It’s not that.”
Samson stopped his hunt, surprised and concerned. “What is it, then?”
She must have sensed his earnestness, because she sighed and said, “Promise me you won’t make fun of me?”
“I swear it,” he said.
Bel fidgeted. “I just have this strange mark on my back, and I didn’t want you to touch it and freak out. “
A tender feeling unfurled around Samson’s heart, like a seedling’s first root. He knew immediately what she was talking about. Her mate mark. All this time, even as she ran from him, even as he doubted her, she had been marked as his own. As his mate.
She pulled the comforter up to her neck. “I’ve had it for twelve years, so I guess it shouldn’t matter, but I don’t know…”
“Oh, beauty.” Gracefully, Samson hoisted himself back onto the bed beside her. He pressed a kiss to her neck – the only skin left showing – and rested his hand over hers on the comforter. “There is no shame in my bed. Do you understand?”
She nodded, biting her lip, and allowed him to fold away the comforter until again she was naked. This time he could see the curve of her back, and the mark at the base of her spine.
Wonder filled him. In the shape of an ellipse, her mark almost looked like a rose petal. He reached out a finger to touch it. His own mark pulsed as he did.
Now was the time to tell her about his true nature, and their true past, but he couldn’t find any words, let alone ones to explain as complicated a concept as that one.
She froze, an army of goose bumps breaking out around her back, all of her suddenly at high alert. Completely open. Completely vulnerable to him.
He stroked her mark.
“Oh,” she sighed.
He lowered his lips to the patch of fur and kissed it.
Her whole body clenched in response, and she murmured, “S-Samson. I-I… please.”
She trembled against him, and he clutched her against his hard, muscled chest, wanting her to say it.
“P-please take me,” she whispered.
His wolf snapped, all control leaving him at her plea. He tore down his jeans and briefs, having slipped off his shoes a few moments earlier. Then he gently but firmly turned her onto her back and slid on top of her. The heat of her pulsed once against his cock. Then he was inside of her.
The first thrust was glorious, but the second was better. She was wet and warm and his. And when she threw her head back and moaned, his whole body seized in excitement. His wolf protested that it still wasn’t loud enough, so he slammed into her harder. And harder.
“Samson!” she screamed, so loudly he was sure his name would be branded on her vocal cords.
Still he went deeper. He wanted to penetrate her very soul, to lose himself inside of her forever. Just as he felt his orgasm dawning, he tilted her chin down, forcing her gaze to meet his, and said, “You are mine now, Isabella.”
Even with her blurry vision, he felt her gaze connect with his own as realization washed over her. The knowledge that she was as thoroughly owned by him as he was by her. Then she began to tremble, vibrating around him in little earthquakes as she came.
He threw back his head and gave one final triumphal thrust, spilling his seed inside her. Marking her as his own.
His mate.
12
They fucked. A lot.
It would be an understatement to say that Samson enjoyed his new mate’s body, and an even bigger understatement to say that Isabel enjoyed his. There was so much exploring to be done, and the mating heat was so strong, that Samson still hadn’t found time to tell her the truth about his nature and what their coupling meant.
Samson grimaced as he walked up the stairs. He had left the house an hour ago to grab groceries while Bel stayed at home napping and finishing up some work on the website.
I’ll tell her now. “Bel,” he called.
There was no answer.
He took the steps up two at a time and flung open the door.
His room was empty, bed made, and while Bel’s smell lingered in the air, she wasn’t there. None of this worried Samson; he was sure she was in the collection room, but then a flash of something metallic lying on the bed caught his attention.
Samson darted toward it and plucked it from the bedspread along with the note it lay on top of. He read the note first.
“You should’ve told me it was you. I don’t like being lied to.”
For the first time in three days, Samson’s wolf, previously quelled by his mate’s touch, reared its head. Angry, afraid, baring its teeth in the face of this new development.
Then Samson turned over the second object in his hand, staring at it with pure frustration.
It was her glasses.
From twelve years ago.
13
“Stupid man.” Bel kicked a nearby tree, glad when the toe of her boot made contact with the trunk, even as she winced in pain. As the hurt blossomed from her toe up her leg, she leaned against the tree she had just assaulted. She would’ve sat down, but the ground was muddy from the recently melted snow.
She had found her glasses at the back of the storage room, behind a wooden figurine of a rose. At first she hadn’t recognized them as hers, but then she had tried them on. And the prescription had been perfect.
Yes, it was possible that the glasses had been left at the house after the old owners had moved, but the minute Bel saw them, she knew they hadn’t been.
Samson was her mystery man. He was her first kiss. Part of her wanted him to be her last, but he had let her tell the whole story of their first meeting without saying a single word. What else wasn’t he telling her?
In the distance, something rustled in the trees. Bel ignored it. “I don’t want to talk to you!” she shouted, expecting it to be Samson. She wasn’t surprised that he had tracked her down; she had left giant tracks in the mud.
She dug her toe into the ground. “Come any closer and I’ll fling mud at you.”
There was still no response, except for the loud cracking of a twig. She guessed it was fair for him to give her the silent treatment. She knew she was being childish. Communication was the cornerstone of any good relationship, not running away.
Bel sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m being stupid. I just need time to think. I promise I’m not going anywhere.”
Something moved in the trees. Something big, but not tall. And very, very dark.
Bel gulped. “Samson?”
Samson didn’t answer.
“Samson!” Bel shouted, clutching her poufy pink coat closer to her body.
Two eyes, so bright they glowed even in the late afternoon, stared back at her.
That wasn’t Samson.
Bel didn’t even have time to scream as a wolf as large as a colt sprang out of the woods and aimed right toward her throat.
14
“Samson!”
Samson’s wolf’s ears perked up as the sound of his mate calling his name echoed through the forest. He had shifted and found her tracks an hour ago, and had followed them at a leisurely pace at first, trying to plan exactly what he would say to her.
Then he had found the second set of tracks. Wolf’s tracks.
Luther.
He had galloped after that, leaping between trees and down hills, his every breath ragged with fear. He would rip out his brother’s throat, tear it into a million pieces and feed it by hand to the local wildlife.
He listened intently, praying he would hear her again, even if it was only a scream. Just something to tell him she was alive.
Finally, he crested the top of the last hill and reached the end of the trail. In a single glance, he processed everything he needed to know. His mate was lying on the ground, and on top of her was the dark, mangy form of his brother.
Samson flew, propelled by pure fury, and slammed into Luther with all his might. His brother fell down easily, malnourished from his time in hiding. But Samson didn’t wait for him to get up.
He would kill Luther for daring to touch what was his. Slowly.
His brother whined, a high noise that only stoked Samson’s bloodlust. Samson lunged for his throat.
“Wait, stop!”his mate yelled.
Samson growled. He wondered what kind of sense she had to yell at what she must have thought were two battling wild animals, but as he drew back from his brother’s throat, he saw what was wrong.
His brother wasn’t a wolf at all anymore.
He had changed back into a man.
And a pathetic one at that. Skinny for a shifter, and pale as the last dregs of melted snow, his brother looked dangerously close to death already. His dark hair was knotted around his face, his only clothing his numerous tattoos.
“S-Sam,” he croaked. “Please, wait. You don’t understand.”
Samson growled, his lips pulling up around his teeth to show his long fangs. If Bel hadn’t spoken, he would’ve eviscerated Luther already.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt her.” Luther ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Touching her, it reminded me.”
Samson’s back rose, his tail standing up straight. He would tolerate no one taking his mate.
Luther shook his head. “Not like that. I know she’s yours. But touching her…touching her reminded me that I have one who’s mine somewhere.”
Samson’s hackles lowered, his wolf calming at his brother’s words, the bonds of their pack reminding him that Luther, for all his foolishness, was not the enemy.
“S-Samson?”
The voice of his mate was so small, so broken, that it eliminated all of Samson’s anger instantly. His tail curled, and he resisted whining. She wasn’t supposed to find out like this.
Luther looked between B
el and his brother a few times before realizing, “She doesn’t fucking know, does she?”
“Samson!” Bel repeated, her voice screeching higher.
“I’m heading back to the house.” Luther shrugged and motioned vaguely. “Good luck, brother.”
From the corner of his eye, Samson watched his brother, still naked, turn and stumble toward the house. Then all of his being focused on his mate.
She was staring at him with a mixture of betrayal and wonder. “I-I’m going crazy.”
He started toward her, sure that if he nuzzled her side she would recognize him and realize he wasn’t a threat, but she jumped backward when he did. So Samson knew that it was time for him to tell the truth.
And he began to change.
15
Bel didn’t believe it.
Even as she saw the wolf twist and turn, its bones lengthening like they were made of Silly Putty, skin replacing fur. Even after there was no denying that the beautifully muscled, feral-looking man in front of her was Samson.
“This,” Bel said, pointing at Samson so hard she wondered if she might accidentally trigger some kind of magic spell, “isn’t happening.”
“Isabella,” he said, reaching out, pleading.
Bel kept herself from looking down. “No. You’re extinct.”
His hand fell to his waist and he tried to smile at her, but she could see fear in his eyes. “Now you understand why I didn’t want you writing my biography.”
“But werewolves can’t… werewolves have…“ Why were words, the one tool she was most comfortable with, failing her when she needed them the most?
“Mates,” he said softly.
Oh, God. Bel’s hand flew to the small of her back. The patch of fur there was hot and pulsing, even through her coat. “So that’s my — “
“Your mate mark, yes.”
