Page 50 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

Her lips part, and she breathes a single name.“Ben.”

The effect is immediate. I feel Ben’s bond fizz with pure, unfiltered joy. All he wants is to be wherever she needs him. For him, it really is that simple. He’s just that good. Maybe that’s why she loves him so much—and why I do, too.

Sunday hesitates again, her gaze dancing between us, piecing together the dynamic. She perches on the edge of the bed in front of Grayson. “And, umm, what will you be doing?”

Grayson chuckles. “Directing, of course, assuring myself that my bonded gets everything she needs from her mates.”

The fingers of his free hand trace idle patterns over Sunday’s ankle. The light catches his eyes again—like night and day colliding. He turns and retreats, his steps deliberate, while Sunday shifts her attention to me.

Her hand brushes my arm lightly. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I am, Amor. I get to eat the most delicious pussy in existence and watch Ben find his own private Nirvana between your lips… how could I be anything but okay?”

Her cheeks flush, her lips quirking into my second favorite of her smiles—shy andslightlyself-satisfied.The cat that got the cream,she’d call it. The bond thrums between us, her joy spilling over like a sunbeam breaking through clouds and warming every corner of me. For a moment, I let myself sink into it—into her—and everything else fades away.

The scrape of wood on floorboards makes my gaze snap to Grayson as he drags a chair from the corner. He moves like the whole damn world exists to serve him—an indolent prince surveying his kingdom.

When he finally settles, arms draped lazily along the chair, he glances to me. His voice, when it comes, is low and just a tad too casual. “Devour her. I want to see her shatter for you.”

The words wrap around me, My jaguar purrs, but there’s a restlessness too, an ache that doesn’t quite fade.

Diosa de la Luna, I want that bond back.

I turn my attention back to the bed, where Sunday lies spread out like a sumptuous feast, her pale skin glowing golden in the warm light. The scatter of freckles across her shoulders and chest reminds me of a painter’s deliberate spatter—bristles pulled back and released, flinging droplets of pigment onto the canvas of her skin.

Ben’s hands trail along her thighs, his touch adoring, almost as if he’s venerating her. Guided by instinct, he leans down and brushes his tongue over my bondmark, his blue eyes flashing metallic as they lock onto mine. He understands why I left my bite there. His fingers graze the faint ladder of silver scars on her thighs, lingering with a tenderness that honors every part of her.

And she deserves that worship—every sensual shadow and curve. Her body is a masterpiece: belly soft and inviting, herbreasts full and perfect. She makes my mouth water and my balls ache. She’s like a fertility idol come to life, our own Venus of Willendorf, radiating abundance and warmth. I’d love her no matter what she looked like. But like this? Like this, she might be the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.

Ben leans in, whispering something against her lips that sends a ripple of light through her skin—a pulse of pinkish magic, there and gone before we can name it. He lifts her wrists above her head, holding them there, presenting her for the rest of us. She doesn’t resist, her body at ease beneath his touch.

It’s the kind of scene I could lose myself in for hours—if my jaguar would just shut up. But no. His focus tonight isn’t on Sunday. It’s on the grumpy control-freak behind us.

I shift my weight, brushing my fingers over Sunday’s knee, trying to anchor myself to her—the warmth of her skin, the way her hair catches the light like fire as she tilts her head back. But my jaguar huffs, restless, dragging my attention back to Gray.

He lounges in that damn chair like a king waiting for tribute, his eyes flicking to mine every few seconds. He knows exactly what’s happening inside my head.

The jaguar growls, low and possessive and I bite back an irritated sigh. What about her? What about Ben?Can you focus on literally anyone else?

But no. The bond we lost pulls like a phantom limb, its absence clawing at something deep and raw inside me. It’s not fair—to Sunday, to Ben, or to me. But it’s my turn now. My turn to show Sunday exactly what I can do, exactly how much I want this.

I climb onto the bed, closing the distance between us. Her scent hits me—honey and brine. It makes my stomach clench with a different kind of hunger, a need I’ve never been able to put into words. It’s her—grounding and wild, sweet and sharp—and it weaves through every thought, every sensation.

Her eyes widen as I approach, “¿Lista, Amor?” I murmur.

Her lips part, then curve into a genuine smile—the one that always takes my breath away. Any doubt or hesitation shatters beneath the weight of it.

Her scent intensifies, intoxicating, a drug I’ll never stop craving, one I have no desire to ever be clean of. My fingers trail along the lush curve of her thighs, deliberate and reverent. Her breath hitches, and the bond between us thrums, electric and alive.

This moment belongs to us. As I lower my mouth to hers, the world shrinks to a pinpoint: Sunday’s gasp, the heat of her skin, the taste of her—sweet and utterly consuming.

This is truly my favorite spot in the world. I’d devour her pussy three times a day if she’d allow it. I’ll never grow tired of feeling her plump and heat beneath my tongue. I swallow down every trace of her slick wetness like the greedy bastard I am.

But I’ve learned not to rush—not to go straight for her clit, though the Goddess knows I want to. No, this has to be more of a seduction. I map her with my tongue, visiting every soft, sensitive part first. Every time it’s different. The way she shifts beneath me, her thighs trembling, the way her breath catches in sharp, needy gasps—it’s all fuel for me, all proof that she’s mine in this moment.

The bed shifts, and I glance up. Goddess, this view—over her pubic mound where a few copper curls catch the light, past her soft belly and the full breasts that fall to each side, and then to her face. Her mouth is open in a softO,her eyebrows drawn together in consternation as Ben holds her wrists with one hand and struggles to get his zipper down.

It’s instinct more than decision—I feel my shadows ripple out, slipping over the bed to brush against Sunday’s skin. They linger on her nipples for a moment, teasing, and she shifts, letting out a little mewl that sends heat racing through me. Ben loses herwrists, and my shadows take over, lifting her hands and holding them in place against the bed frame.

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