Luca's POV
Three months into marriage, and I can't keep my hands off him.
It's embarrassing. I'm painting in the studio, and all I can think about is Rian's hands on me last night, his mouth, the way he—
"You're thinking about me," Rian's voice rumbles from the doorway.
I startle, dropping my brush. "I'm not—"
"The bond doesn't lie, baby." He prowls closer, eyes amber. "I can feel your arousal. Your need."
Heat floods my face. "That's invasive."
"That's being mated." He's behind me now, hands sliding around my waist. "And I'm having the same problem. Been hard all morning thinking about you."
His evidence presses against my lower back. I gasp.
"See what you do to me?" His mouth finds my neck, kissing the mate mark. "Drive me insane, Luca."
"We can't. Not here. People could—"
"I locked the door. Soundproofed the room." His hands slide under my shirt. "Just us."
"Someone will know—"
"Let them. You're my husband. I'm allowed to need you." His teeth graze my mark, and I melt. "Tell me you want this."
"I always want this," I admit breathlessly. "Want you constantly."
His growl vibrates through me. "Good. Because I plan to have you. Right here. Against your easel."
What follows is intense, desperate, hungry. Paint smears across our skin as he claims me thoroughly, possessively.
"Mine," he growls with each movement. "Say it."
"Yours," I gasp. "Always yours."
Later, both covered in paint and satisfied, we collapse on the studio floor.
"We're a mess," I observe.
"A beautiful mess." He traces paint patterns on my chest. "Love seeing my marks on you. Paint and bite marks and thoroughly claimed."
"Possessive Alpha."
"Your possessive Alpha." He kisses me softly. "And you love it."
I do. God help me, I do.
That evening, after showering together—which turns into another intense session against the tiles—we finally make it to dinner.
The pack notices our late arrival, our flushed faces. Damon smirks.
"Productive afternoon, Alpha?"
"Very," Rian says without shame, hand possessive on my thigh under the table.
I try to focus on food, but his touch distracts. His fingers trace patterns on my leg, sliding higher, teasing.
"Stop," I hiss.
"Why? You like it." His smile is wicked.
Through the bond, I feel his desire—still burning, still wanting. It feeds my own until I'm squirming.
"Bedroom. Now," I demand quietly.
His eyes flash amber. "Yes, Luna."
We barely make it upstairs before he's on me again. Desperate kisses, fumbling with clothes, need overwhelming everything else.
"Can't get enough of you," he breathes against my skin. "Never enough."
"Then don't stop," I beg. "Never stop."
He doesn't.
Hours later, exhausted and sated, wrapped in his arms, I realize something.
"I'm happy," I whisper. "Genuinely, completely happy."
He holds me tighter. "Me too, baby. Me too."