Book 9: The Ancient Art of Marking One's Mate

Sarah

This feels like the very first time. There’s nothing frantic about this. Each touch, every stroke of his fingers, is calculated and meticulous, honed to my pleasure. 

Sydney’s hands graze up my back as I continue to straddle him, my thighs locked against his hips. I grind against him, growing desperate with need. 

His fingertips drag down my spine in a touch that sends chills cascading over my body, like he’s hitting every nerve and setting them aflame. 

There’s nothing in my head. My mind is blissfully quiet as every ounce of my energy focuses on the way he’s touching me and how he tastes when I kiss him again and again. 

“Sarah.” He growls low in his throat when I bite down on his lip. I grind against his cock, nothing but my leggings and the towel he’s wearing around his waist to separate us. 

“Please,” I whimper. “Please, Sydney. I need this. I need you inside of me. I’m desperate.” I don’t even