Macy Beckett - Make You Mine

“Have I told you how much I love you?” he asked.

“I can stand to hear it again.”

So he murmured it in a litany as he lowered himself onto her body and wrapped her in his warmth. Gradually, his gentle kisses grew possessive, and Allie’s fingers worked the buttons on his shirt in desperation to get closer. Their mouths never parted as they clumsily peeled off tops and pants, socks and flip-flops. They’d made love before, but this was different—each caress and nibble lingered as if they had all the time in the world.

Because they did.

Finally skin to skin, they moved beneath the covers, where Marc slipped inside her, hot and hard and completely bare. They gasped at the brand-new sensation of smooth flesh gliding against wet heat. Just when Allie thought making love with Marc couldn’t feel any better, he surprised her with something as simple as bare contact.

Her pleasure heightened by unencumbered friction, she fought to last longer than a few moments, but it was no use. He was too good. She came for him quickly, then again with him while he clasped their left hands together, their gold bands clinking against each other as their gazes held and made them one soul.

Allie had never cried during sex, but this was so much more than the joining of two bodies. Marc had taken everything from her while giving all of himself, and the experience overwhelmed her. Their connection was so primal and beautiful that she couldn’t contain her emotions—they leaked from the corners of her eyes and dripped onto the pillow. Marc held her face between his palms and brushed away each droplet, replacing it with a kiss.

When the tears stopped, Marc rolled to the side and pulled her firmly against the safety of his chest, wrapping an arm around her while using his free hand to stroke her curls. She traced circles against his skin, smiling when her touch raised chills to the surface of his flesh.

“Love you,” he said for what seemed like the hundredth time, not that Allie was complaining.

“Love you more.”

His chest shook with quiet laughter. “Give me a minute to recover and I’ll prove you wrong.”

She used her fingertips to graze his nipple, then moved lower to brush his lower belly. “Challenge accepted.” Through the sheet, she could see him hardening again, and it brought a grin to her lips.

She filled her lungs with the masculine scent of her husband and lifted her left hand to admire the rings that proved they were married. She had a feeling she’d have to keep gazing at them to reassure herself this wasn’t a dream.

He must have felt the same, because Marc glanced at his own ring. Then he said something that caught her off guard. “I wonder if the curse is broken for my whole family, or just for me.”

Allie pushed up on one elbow and peered down at him to gauge his expression. He wasn’t kidding. “You’re serious?”

“Of course I am.”

“Marc,” she said with a smile in her voice, “you’re not hexed. You never were.” She’d explained that to him at the cemetery. “It’s psychology that kept the men in your family from getting married, not voodoo.”

He lifted one shoulder. “Believe what you want, but I know what really happened.”

Just as she geared up to argue with him, she noticed something amiss. Marc’s fleur-de-lis tattoo stood in dark contrast to the skin on his muscled arm, but the wine-colored splash above his heart was gone—the mark all the men in his family had carried since birth.

She leaned in to get a closer look and scrubbed a hand over his chest. “Your birthmark,” she said, still scanning his torso. “Did you have it lasered off or something?”

“What?” He glanced down and examined the smooth patch of skin where the blotch used to be. “No, I haven’t messed with it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Honey, I think I’d remember if someone sandblasted off my birthmark.”

“Then where’d it go? It was there a couple of weeks ago.”

“Exactly.” He smiled smugly. “Before we broke the curse.”

“Oh, come on.” But even as she needled him, she couldn’t help wondering if the two were somehow related. It was a bit coincidental. She bit her lip and stared at his chest, wondering if his brothers still bore the mark above their hearts. “It’s probably a temporary fluke.”

Chuckling, Marc rolled her onto her back and pressed her into the mattress with his solid weight. “Married less than an hour, and we’re already having our first argument.” When she began to object, he silenced her with a kiss and used a knee to part her thighs. “Does it really matter?” he asked. “Hex or no hex, we get to do this for the rest of our lives.”

“Mmm.” He had a point—and this felt awfully good. Allie tugged on his shoulders while wrapping a leg around his hips. “Who spends their honeymoon talking, anyway?”

“Sad, misguided fools, that’s who.”

She gave him a sly smile. “So why are we still talking?”

“Beats the hell out of me.” He buried his face at the crook of her neck and nibbled her speechless. One final thought drifted through Allie’s mind before she sank into oblivion. . . .

Voodoo or not, we’ll make our own magic.

“Hey, Cap’n?” Alex and Nicky set down the keg they were hauling, narrowly avoiding the tips of their bare toes, the idiots. Everyone knew you didn’t wear flip-flops for heavy lifting. Simultaneously, they asked, “Where do you want this?”

Marc nodded toward the side deck rail. “Over there, next to the rocking chairs. Make sure you keep it in the shade this time. Warm beer’s a crime against nature.”

“You got it, boss.”

Boss.

He used to like the sound of that, but the responsibilities of managing the Belle had kept him from fully enjoying his first few weeks as a newlywed. The twins had given him nothing but hell since he’d returned from Vegas. They’d lost another jazz singer, thanks to Nicky, and this morning Alex had been too busy trailing after Ella-Claire to run payroll on time. Now the checks would be a day late, which meant fielding interference for a pissed-off staff. Additionally, there were repairs to schedule and kinks to work out before the next trip. He just wanted to spend some time with his wife.

Wife.

Marc smiled. He definitely liked the sound of that.

He needed a managing partner to share the workload, and he half wondered if Beau was the man for the job. They butted heads once in a while, but Beau knew how to run a tight ship. Marc covertly watched his big brother as he supervised the workers setting up for Allie’s surprise wedding reception.

Beau pointed to the banner hanging from the midlevel deck. “Straighten that sign,” he hollered. “The end is wrinkled, so it looks like Congratulations, Marc and Al. I don’t want to give folks the wrong idea about my little brother’s sexual orientation.”

From the other side of the deck, Marc laughed appreciatively. Good to know someone was looking out for him.

After Beau checked the buffet warmers, he joined Marc and clapped him on the back. “How long until crunch time?”

Marc checked his watch, noting he had thirty minutes before Devyn lured Allie to the boat under the pretense of taking inventory in the galley. “Not long enough.”

“What can I do?”

Marc nodded at the buffet table. “What you do best—get the burgers on the line.” He delivered a good-natured smack to his brother’s shoulder. “Thanks, man. I owe you.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Beau said. “Hell, for the first time in a hundred years, one of us finally tied the knot. If that’s not a damned fine reason to tap a few kegs and fire up the grill, I don’t know what is.”

Marc couldn’t agree more. His new bride had insisted she didn’t need a party, but he wanted her to have a proper reception. He’d even hired a photographer and ordered a wedding cake that Devyn and the Sweet Spot crew had baked on the sly. Now he had to help the deejay set up and see to the decorations, which still weren’t finished.

He needed Ella-Claire, his Chief Party Planner. Where was that girl?

It didn’t take long to spot her—all he had to do was find Alex, who’d already abandoned his keg duties. Like two halves of a peanut butter and honey sandwich, Marc could always find the duo stuck together. Arms linked, the pair leaned against the side wall, smiling while scrolling through pictures on Ella’s phone. Their bodies pressed a little too close; their gazes held a little too long to fool him into believing it was platonic.

Best friends, his ass.

Marc took a calming breath while stalking toward the two, determined not to blow a fuse and ruin his mood for Allie’s big day. “Hey,” he called, making them jump. He crooked a finger at Alex. “Come help the deejay while Ella tends to the decorations.”

Alex must have sensed he was in trouble, because he kept a safe distance while they made their way to the dance floor. Before they got there, Marc spun on his little brother and brought him to a clumsy halt.

“I don’t know what’s up with you and Ella-Claire,” Mark said. “But if you want to keep your walnuts, you’d better back off.”

Alex’s blond brows shot up while his eyes widened in denial. “It’s noth—”

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing,” Marc interrupted. “Just steer clear of my sister.” He shot Alex a pointed look. “We clear?”

Alex’s fair cheeks began to redden. “Crystal.” He crouched down, turning his attention to the tangle of cords and wires at their feet, before flagrantly changing the subject. “Did you talk Pawpaw into coming?”