Page 110 of Tharn's Hunt
The words are guttural, disbelieving, like he’s tasting them for the first time.
I don’t get to answer.
His claws sink into the furs beside my head as he slides into me. Slow, torturous, his golden eyes locked on mine, watching every flinch, every gasp, every shudder as he fills me completely.
"Say it again," he growls.
I can’t. Not when he moves, his hips rolling in a deep, devastating rhythm that makes my vision blur. The ridges along his shaft drag against me, the swollen curve at his base grinding ruthlessly against my clit with every thrust.
"Jah-kee." My name is a warning spreading from his mind to mine.
I sob, my legs locking around his waist as I pull him deeper inside, and my heels find them. The strange, raised ridges along the sides of his hips. They are perfect handholds, but for my feet. My heels slot into the grooves as if they were carved for me, allowing me to pull him impossibly deeper with every returning thrust. "I choose you, you bastard?—!"
His roar shakes the cave as his climax ruptures through him, his cock pulsing inside me, his hips jerking as he spills deep. The bond between us ignites, and I’m coming with him, my back arching off the furs as pleasure obliterates every thought.
For one fractured moment, we’re not two bodies. We’re starlight, collision, the last two survivors of a dying universe.
Then Tharn collapses over me, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged.
“My female. My beautiful, perfect Jah-kee.”
My clothes—ormore accurately, the fabric ghosts of what used to be clothes—lie in tattered ruins across the alcove floor.
I hold up what might have once been a shirt sleeve. "Fantastic. At this rate, I'll be fashioning pasties from cave lichen by next week."
Tharn watches from the furs, propped on one elbow like some golden desert god, utterly unrepentant. Sunlight catches his skin, painting him like he’s Zeus himself.
"We Drakav do not cover," he projects, his mental voice syrup-smooth. The bastard even has the audacity to gesture at his own naked glory, as if his stupidly perfect physique is a compelling argument.
I fling a scrap of fabric at his head. It flutters pathetically to the ground halfway. "You're wearing my blouse as a loincloth."
He glances down at the makeshift garment—stretched taut over his hips, the fabric barely containing him—and has the nerve to look pleased. "It smells like you."
Heat floods my cheeks. "That's not—That's not the point!"
Tharn moves, a blur of golden muscle, closing the distance before I can draw a breath. His hands clamp onto my bare waist,his grip firm, possessive. His gaze drops to my mouth, his own lips parting slightly.
"Better this way," his thought is a low, guttural rumble. "No coverings. Easier to taste." His head dips, his fangs grazing my bottom lip like a promise. A brand.
Corn on the cob.
It's a dirty tactic. Effective, but dirty.
I shove at his chest—or try to. My newfound strength doesn’t even cause him to budge. When, after a second, he stumbles back a step, I know he did that for my benefit.
I roll my eyes, but my humor dies when his gaze catches on the marks along my neck. His pupils blow wide, his breathing stutters.
"Jah-kee—" His claws hover over the bruises like he’s afraid to touch them. "I hurt you."
"It’s fine, they don’t even—Tharn!"
He’s already halfway across the cave, bolting for the entrance.
Two minutes later, he explodes back into the alcove, clutching a fistful of firebloom, already crushed.
"Eat," he orders, shoving the petals at my mouth.
"I don't need—mmph!" He stuffs some between my lips.
