Page 53 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

Grayson’s smiles, approval etched into the sharp line of his mouth. “Good,” he says, his thumb still brushing her cheek. “I’ll need you first.”

She tilts her head to the side before he’s even done speaking, baring her neck with a slow, fluid motion. Her submission is natural, instinctive. It tugs at every bond between us, saturating the room with her heat. Even Ben groans.

Grayson’s chuckle is low. “No,” he murmurs, his fingers gliding down her throat to rest just above her delicate collarbones. “I think we can do better than that. Lie back, Lover.”

She melts into the bed, her body pliant. Ben shifts closer, his big hand closing around mine, as Grayson kneels between her thighs. His authority is unmistakable, but it’s tempered by the way he touches her—with careful control, but also with so much care.

He sinks into her, his movements fluid. Sunday’s back arches, her body responding like they were made for each other. Hereyes squeeze shut, lips parting as a low, satisfied hum vibrates through our bond, sending a bolt of molten heat to my cock.

The bed dips slightly under their weight, just a little too low for perfect alignment. I move instinctively, grabbing an atrocious throw pillow and lifting her hips, sliding it beneath her.

I make a note to steal it for our nest later.

The way her body reacts—the slight hitch in her breath, that dreamy half-lidded smile—makes energy dance up my spine. Grayson glances to me, something passing between us, and for once, I don’t feel the need to name it.

Then he leans in, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, and pulls me into one of the best damn kisses of my life. It’s not rushed or messy—it’s deliberate, restrained, and it absolutely wrecks me.

His lips are warm, his tongue teasing against mine in a way that feels like both an offering and a demand. He pulls back slowly, his mouth brushing mine one last time, like he’s savoring the taste of us, taking in Sunday’s essence still smeared across my face and lingering on my tongue.

Then his focus shifts to her, his movements measured, almost calculated, as he adjusts his rhythm and depth within her. Whatever he’s doing is beyond human—a skill honed by centuries of practice—and it makes her writhe beneath him, her hips grinding up as though trying to take him deeper. Her head falls back, her body trembling, and I file it all away… every twitch and angle,for future use.

She reaches for him, her fingers curling instinctively toward his shoulder, but he catches her wrist smoothly. Kneeling now, one knee on the bed, his tempo stays steady as he pulls her arm between them. His lips brush the soft, pale skin of her forearm, lingering just long enough to lick a slow, deliberate line up to her pulse before capturing her eyes and sinking his fangs in.

Her gasp cuts through the room, breaking into a soft, keening cry as her back bows off the bed. Her body jolts, thighs trembling as she clenches around him, nails biting into his shoulder. Our bond ignites—a blinding surge of pleasure that streaks through me like sunlight through shattered glass.

I feel it too—the electric jolt of venom flooding her, amplifying everything, pulling her deeper, until she’s lost to it. Her cries build, each tremor rolling through her in waves of molten gold, dragging me with her through their honeyed pleasure.

Grayson doesn’t let up. His pace stays steady, his movements exact, pushing her through every shuddering crest. His fangs remain buried in her arm, a dark and intimate tether.

My jaguar paces, torn between fascination and unease, the predator in me snarls at the sight of her complete surrender. The venom addict in me slobbers for a taste. Grayson’s eyes flick to mine—knowing—and the smirk that curves his blood-smeared lips is pure sin.

He finally lifts his head, tongue catching the last trace of crimson. Sunday slumps against him, dazed and wrecked, and Ben’s there, steadying her with an arm around her waist. But Grayson’s focus shifts—locking onto me.

“Your turn,” he says, his voice quiet, edged with command—the kind that doesn’t ask, just expects compliance.

I hesitate, my jaguar growling low, caught between the need to assert itself and the shadows of old fears. I step back, my hands falling to my sides as Sunday curls up on the bed. The bond hums with her pleasure, a warm thread of reassurance I cling to, steadying the nerves jangling at the edges of my mind.

Our instincts are at odds with the ghosts clawing their way to the surface. Grayson will expect it. I think.He’ll want to fuck us.

The thought tightens around my ribs like a steel band.

Ben’s never pushed for more, never hinted at needing it. I figured one day, maybe, I’d want it again. Because isn’t that whatyou do? When you’ve got a cock and you’re with other cock-carrying lovers, it’s expected. And I even liked it, once or twice.Maybe.

This should be natural for me. I’m submissive in bed,mostly. But it isn’t.Not since Texas.

The memories flicker like a bad film reel: hands pulling, voices demanding, no choices, no control. My stomach churns, and the jaguar growls, the weight of it all too much. But this is different. Grayson is different. He’s… safe, ours.

I try to believe it, but the nerves dig in deeper, knotting tight. I’ll offer and it will be okay. The bad thoughts will stay where they belong.

I look at him, his beautiful eyes locked on mine—unreadable. I open my mouth to say what I think he wants to hear, but before I can, he speaks—matter-of-fact, deliberate, and so utterly Grayson.

“How do you want me, Little Cat?” His voice is a velvet thread. “Bent over the bed?” His fingers trace a slow line of fire from my collarbone to my navel. His other hand tilts my chin up, his eyes holding mine, searching. “Or should I kneel for you?”

The words hang between us, and for a moment, I’m sure I misheard. My jaguar growls, pacing in my mind, confused, as I struggle to process it. Grayson—imposing, ancient, always in control—kneeling for me?

It’s the kind of fever dream I’d never admit to, except maybe when Dominga is beneath me, and something wild and veryun-submissiverises to the surface. In those moments, I’ve imagined it: sliding into him, my bond mark glinting silver against his perfect skin. A fantasy I’ve kept locked away—private and very satisfying.

My mouth moves before I can stop it. “You’d do that?” Disbelief tangled in every syllable. “Let an Omega, a shifter, a venom—”

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