Page 130 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

Normally, a kiss would feel natural. But here, now, with the beast towering before me, it feels… wrong, almost unnatural. No soft lips or gentle touches will do. Instead, there’s an overwhelming urge to rub my face against him, to run my tongue over his skin, to feel the weight of his need pressing against mine—panting, desperate, wild.

I need his scent on me, in me.

These aren’t human wants or human needs—they’re something older, something deeper. My magic stirs, restless and insistent, the wild part of me clawing to the surface. It builds, swelling to something unstoppable, pulling me closer to metamorphosis, closer to the edge of ruin.

Before I can fully grasp the shift within me, he sweeps me into his arms—an unlikely bride, a terrifying groom, and a threshold I’m only beginning to understand. He carries me to the center of the clearing where the moon hangs full and ripe in the sky, herlight spilling down in silver streams, pooling on the earth like a decadent offering.

With a slow, deliberate drop to his knees, he pulls me close, his heat sinking into my skin like a brand. And then, as though the moment demands it—as though the goddess herself has called him to bear witness—he tilts his head back and meets her bold, temptress gaze, her wanton, fecund allure.

And then he howls.

Gooseflesh peppers my skin. Frisson, I think idly—like hearing someone singin’ about heartbreak, their voice stumbling, falling, and catching, where pain and imperfection cut deeper than any polished note ever could. It’s raw and gravelly—a sound that gets under my skin and turns electric, every follicle, every nerve ending, coming alive, twisting and reaching for him, as though my body already knows what my mind is too stunned to process.

His song rises, raw and resonant, filling the clearing and echoing into the night like the cry of a spirit unleashed. It’s not a lament of longing—it’s a song of gratitude, a declaration, and something far older. It carries the fierce, unrelenting power of a promise made under the watchful gaze of the goddess.

And I feel it. That promise is not just his—it’s ours.

The howl dies, leaving a charged silence that hums with potential. His gaze locks onto mine, molten and unyielding, and the bond between us pulls tight, trembling on the edge of breaking. My breath catches, my chest heavy, as my magic stirs, pressing against the edges of me, desperate to break free.

Then he moves.

His claws curl into the blanket beneath me as he lowers us both to the ground, careful despite the raw tension thrumming in his frame. His body is impossibly warm, a furnace against the cool night air, and when his lips—his teeth—graze the delicate skin of my neck, my vision goes white for a moment. My pulseraces, but not from fear. The need coursing through me is wild, inhuman, and it’s not entirely his.

My legs wrap around his waist, and I can’t suppress a shiver at the sheer alien feel of him. His body is a sculpted marvel of power, nothing like the man I know. His waist is wasp-thin, layered with compact, rippling muscle, every inch of him built for speed and strength. Where a human’s ribcage would be flatter, his curves outward—convex and powerful—housing lungs that seem to draw in the night itself.

And below his waist, I feel the length of him lying heavy across my stomach, leaving a slick, pearlescent trail. Long and turgid, it presses against me, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, a primal promise of what’s to come.

My fingers tangle in the thick fur of his ruff, sinking into the layered texture beneath my hands. The coarse guard hairs feel rough and sturdy, like bristles meant to shield him from the world, while the softer undercoat invites me to linger. My touch is no longer timid but claiming. Mine, I think, the word striking like a drumbeat in time with my heart.

A low growl rumbles in his chest, vibrating through me, and I gasp as the sound ignites something deep and aching inside. My magic spills over, unfurling into the clearing, and I feel it in everything—The trees above us sway with it, their leaves trembling in unison. Flowers bloom in the moonlight, bursting through the edges of the tarp in a riot of color.

The Moon Goddess watches from above, her presence palpable, her approval washing over us in waves that pull and churn like the tides. Her weight in the heavens stirs more than the oceans—she pulls water, blood, desire—all of it answering her call. Her moonlight bathes us in silver, slick and shameless, binding us to her will, her rhythm, her ancient dance.

Tomas presses closer, his weight, his strength, overwhelming but grounding. The prick of his claws on my thighs contrastswith the silken warmth of his breath at my ear. He moves lower along my body, his tongue never leaving my skin, every stroke deliberate and consuming. His chest rumbles, a deep, resonant sound that feels less like a lover’s purr and more like a predator’s claim.

He doesn’t linger in the usual places that might draw a human’s touch. Instead, his instincts guide him to where my scent is strongest, where his tongue can learn me in ways his hands never could. He licks the hollow beneath my arm, the sensitive curve of my ribs, tasting me like I’m something vital. His nose presses into me, trailing lower with a deep inhale that feels like he’s breathing me into his very soul. When his tongue flicks against my belly button, a startled giggle escapes me, only to be swallowed by the intensity that follows.

He parts my legs, but he doesn’t look—not as a man would. His eyes fall shut, and his chest heaves as he inhales deeply, his mouth open, the motion full-bodied, as though he’s tasting the very essence of me in the air. A shiver ripples through him, and I feel the sting of claws, maybe drawing blood. It’s as if my scent runs through him, wild and unstoppable, and the reaction it provokes is undeniable—a deep tremor that steals his control and lays his need bare.

Then he’s on me. His tongue moves with purpose, tracing every fold and ripple with meticulous care. It’s not the familiar touch of human lips—it’s something more. His teeth, a whispered reminder of his power, stay careful, but his tongue? It’s impossibly agile, teasing, caressing me in ways that leave me breathless. There’s no longing for the familiar here—only awe at the waves of pleasure he draws from me, relentless and all-consuming.

He lets me come almost immediately—a sure sign that Tomas isn’t running this show. A low rumble reverberates through me as he hoists me up, positioning me on my knees. His cock,already a menacing presence, is now fully engorged—red and furious, glinting with the steel of its barbells. It’s apoplectic, visceral, and I find myself leaning forward, drawn to him despite the intimidating sight.

I let my tongue flick over him, tasting salt, musk, and the wild, loamy essence of the earth itself. Beneath it all, though, there’s still Tomas—the green apple tang that makes my cheeks ache, the faint smoke that pulls me toward comfort and warmth—a reminder of the man who still lingers inside the beast.

Claws tangle in my hair, scraping lightly against my scalp before shifting, becoming gentler, almost hesitant—like he’s still trying to be careful with me despite the wildness coursing through him. His movements are deliberate, intense, as he pushes into my mouth. And, much like my experiences with Ben, though he shouldn’t fit—not by any logic or law of physics—he does. It’s magic. There’s no other explanation. And honestly? I’m too lost in the raw sensation to question it.

The only warning I get is the tightening of those claws, digging into my scalp just before a furious roar erupts from him. Then he floods my mouth. And I mean floods—there’s nothing restrained about it. His cum spills past my lips, trailing down my chin as I swallow, then swallow again, struggling to keep up with the overwhelming rush. My hands slide up between his legs, fingers curling over unfamiliar textures. No smooth skin here—everything is alien, furred, and utterly foreign. My fingers find his balls, rolling them gently, eliciting a deep, guttural growl that reverberates through him and into me.

He thrusts again, deeper, insistent, and I feel another surge—thick, hot, and impossible to contain. It spills down my chest in rivulets, each sensation grounding me deeper into this surreal, electrifying moment.

I look up at him—the wolf, the Lycan, the monster—my breath seesawing in and out as I lick my lips, chasing his taste, myfingers absently rubbing his scent into my skin. The compulsion to cover myself in him, to carry him with me in every way, is overwhelming. He blinks slowly, deliberately, before sinking to his knees in front of me. One more cheek rub, one more lazy lick that ends at the hollow of my throat, and then I’m turning, presenting myself.

He doesn’t hesitate.

There’s no pause to ease me into his size, no tentative worry about whether I’m ready. His nose has already told him everything he needs to know.

When he presses into me, it’s not gentle—it’s fire meeting fire, an unstoppable force colliding with its match. The burn doesn’t destroy; it transforms, stripping away everything but this moment, this bond, this claiming.

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