Page 30 of Echoes of Fire

Rath’s claw closed around the half-empty pouch with wicked deliberation, his gaze locked on the honey glistening at its torn edge. The low light caught the golden strands stretching between fabric and talon, each thread snapping with a softpopthat echoed too loud in the sudden stillness. His nostrils flared—inhaling sugar, heat,me—as he leaned in until his breath fanned hot across my jaw.

“This,” he rumbled, “belongs here.”

The pouch tilted.

“Rath!”

Honey spilled in a ribbon, thick and sticky, painting a warm trail from the hollow of my throat to the slope of my breast under my shirt. I gasped at the heat—not scalding, but alive, like sunlight given liquid form. It pooled in the dip of my collarbone.

Rath’s tongue swept over a fang. “Better.”

His free hand settled at my hip, claws pricking warning-dimples into flesh as he leaned closer. The honey’s floral scent mingled with his own—charred cedar and midnight embers—as the last drops fell. His thumb followed the viscous path upward,smearing it wider,darker, until my pulse throbbed where honey and his touch collided.

The empty pouch dropped to the floor. His other hand caged my wrist above my head, scales hissing against stone as he lowered his mouth to the mess he’d made.

“We can’t let this go to waste,” he said. His slit pupils drank greedily at the honey dripping over me. “Too many layers,” he growled against my throat.

The first rend of fabric came without warning. His talon hooked beneath my shirt’s neckline, slicing downward in one fluid motion. Cool air rushed over newly bared skin as the garment fell away in forgotten scraps. I arched instinctively, honey-smeared breasts heaving under the hunger blazing in his eyes.

“Mine.”

The declaration vibrated through his chest and into mine as he straddled my hips. He tore off his own tunic, ruby scales glinting beneath, nipple piercings catching the crystal’s glow. My brain short circuited at that.

The first lick was a brand.

I barely registered the cool air on my exposed stomach before his tongue struck—a hot, flat stroke from collarbone to pulse point that left scorched nerves in its wake. His teeth grazed skin, not breaking flesh but promising consequences.

When his mouth closed over the honey pooled in the hollow of my throat, the vibration of his groan traveled straight to my core.

“It tastes better here,” he rumbled against damp skin, that wickedly long tongue flicking the frantic beat beneath my jaw. His hips ground down, the rigid heat beneath his trousers leaving no doubt about his state. The musk pouring off him thickened—smoke and charred amber with an undercurrent of something sweetly metallic.

I had to touch him.

He hissed when my nails caught the black hoops piercing his nipples, the sound sharpening as I rolled one between thumb and forefinger. “You,” his claws tore through the remains of his trousers, letting the fabric fall to the floor, “play with fire,shyrarva.”

The honey between us grew tacky as he reared back, allowing me to see what I’d uncovered. Thick liquid leaked out of the head of his cock. A barbell through his foreskin glinted wetly, each subtle twitch making the pierced flesh quiver like a living thing.

He was piercedtheretoo.

Oh my god.

My breath stuttered. Human anatomy hadn’t prepared me forthis—the way red scales rippled like armor at the base before melting into swollen crimson flesh, dark veins pulsing beneath the surface.

Thick.Toothick, my hindbrain whispered even as heat pooled between my thighs. The foreskin didn’t just pull back—itrippled, a strange lip curling lazily against the glans, glistening with beads of translucent fluid that carried his smoky-sweet scent.

My mouth watered.

The barbell piercing through it all caught the light, swinging faintly with every twitch of that alien flesh.

“It’s …” I swallowed, fingers flexing uselessly at my sides. “Not what I expected.”

Rath’s tail lashed once, violently, before coiling around my bare calf. “Displeasing?” The growl held an edge I’d never heard—vulnerability masquerading as threat.

“No.” My hand moved without permission, hovering inches from where pre-cum slicked the veined shaft. “Not even a little.”

A claw caught my wrist. “Shyrarva.” The word was a lit fuse. When I met his gaze, the hunger there scorched every clinical thought to ash. “Touch me.”

It wasn’t a command. It was desperation.

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