Page 27 of Claws and Effect

Laykin bit her lip and nodded. All clothes were gone by now. Zyle’s hands flew up to her breasts, and he squeezed them.

Laykin released a moan and rocked her hips back and forth with the rhythm of Zyle’s grasping.

She rode him like she was chasing the best time at a rodeo match. She bucked and let his hands on her breasts keep her up.

Zyle’s cock grew harder inside her. It pressed outward as her wet walls squeezed inward. She let the motion of his cock spur her hips on. Laykin moved up and down his shaft, and he pressed his hips deeper into her.

She pumped her knees harder. Her legs squeezed around Zyle’s cock, and he groaned out and released his climax inside Laykin.

The pressure rubbed on Laykin’s G-spot. She ground her hips in, and pleasure released through her body in droves.

She collapsed against Zyle’s hands, and he caught her. Zyle pulled her into a hug as they both lay breathing heavily.

Gently, Zyle rubbed his hands up and down Laykin’s naked back. It was a tender movement she loved, and instead of being shocked, Laykin leaned into it.

She snuggled into the crook of his neck and wrapped her arms around his chest.

He cradled her head, and she looked up at him. He lifted his head and gave her a gentle kiss.

That kiss awakened Laykin’s body to a second wind.

Tonight was all about them.

NINETEEN

The predawn darkness cloaked Zyle’s penthouse in silence, broken only by the soft, rhythmic breathing of the woman curled against him. He’d awakened instantly as he did every morning, internal clock precise to the minute. But for the first time in years, he made no move to rise.

Instead, he watched her.

Golden hair cascaded across his black silk pillowcase, catching what little light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. One delicate hand rested possessively over his heart, her fingers occasionally twitching in sleep. The sight of Laykin in his bed, wearing nothing but moonlight and satisfaction, sent a surge of primitive ownership through him so powerful his tiger nearly broke through his skin.

Mine.

The ferocity of that thought should have disturbed him. Six days ago, Princess Laykin Barclay had been nothing more than a name on a contract—the political solution to generations of pride tension. Now she occupied his bed, his thoughts, and territories of his heart he’d believed long sealed off.

Zyle traced the curve of her bare shoulder, his touch ghost-light to avoid waking her. His fingers lingered over thefading bruise where the tranquilizer dart had struck during the ambush. The purple mark marred her otherwise flawless skin, a stark reminder of how close he’d come to losing her before he’d even claimed her.

Silver rimmed his vision as his tiger surged forward, demanding retribution. Every muscle in his body tensed with the need to hunt down those who had dared touch what belonged to him. The primal urge to protect warred with his human rationality.

Laykin stirred beside him, mumbling something unintelligible before settling deeper into sleep. The innocent movement calmed his tiger, returning his focus to the miracle of her presence in his bed.

Last night replayed in his mind with crystal clarity. The kiss in the hallway when she’d chased after him, her hazel eyes blazing with determination as she’d declared her choice. The way she’d melted against him when he’d carried her to his bedroom. How perfectly she’d fit beneath him, around him, with him—as though created specifically to complement every part of him.

Most vividly, he remembered her whispered confession against his skin in the aftermath: “I never expected to find you behind the contract.” The simple statement had shattered something inside him, something cold and rigid he’d spent a lifetime constructing.

Carefully, Zyle extracted himself from her embrace, memorizing the image of her in his bed before padding silently to the kitchen. Morning light now streaked the eastern sky, painting his minimalist penthouse in shades of amber and gold that reminded him of her eyes.

He moved through his morning ritual with practiced efficiency, grinding premium coffee beans with precise motions while his mind worked through a different problem altogether:how to prove to Laykin that she wasn’t merely fulfilling a contractual obligation, but claiming a place in his life no other woman had ever touched?

The business alpha in him approached it strategically—identify the objective, analyze potential methods, execute with precision. But the man in him, the part awakened by her touch, knew better. This wasn’t a corporate takeover. This was Laykin, fierce and independent, who had kicked off her shoes to fight attackers in a pencil skirt. Who had matched him kiss for kiss, challenge for challenge.

Who deserved so much more than duty.

The coffee machine hummed as Zyle sliced artisanal bread, arranged fresh berries in a crystal bowl, and set out imported cheese on a slate platter. Simple tasks that grounded him while his thoughts raced ahead to security protocols, protective measures, and ways to eliminate threats to her without ever letting her know the brutal lengths he would go to keep her safe.

“I didn’t take you for a cook.”

Her voice hit him like a physical caress. Zyle turned to find Laykin leaning against the doorframe, wearing his white dress shirt from the previous night. The garment swallowed her petite frame, falling to mid-thigh and revealing miles of sun-kissed legs. His scent enveloped her, marking her more effectively than any visible claim.

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