Page 23 of Purring for Her Lion
“You can,” he insists, hand finding my clit, thumb circling with ruthless precision. “One more. With me.”
I’m writhing, lost, and then he’s got me again, tension snapping. “Now,” he commands, and I feel him swell, cock expanding as he slams into me, one last time.
We come together, my body clenching around him as he fills me, the sensation so intense it’s almost too much. I’m floating, shattering, dissolving in pleasure.
He covers me as I come down, weight warm and heavy, lips pressing my temple, gentle.
“That’s my good girl,” he whispers, voice thick. “My perfect mate.”
The word “mate” echoes in me, deep and right.
But before I can answer, the dream fades, edges blurring, Roarke’s weight turning to nothing. I try to hold on, but he’s gone, slipping away.
The last thing I feel is his hand on my cheek, so gentle it aches, and then?—
Darkness. Soft, deep, peaceful.
And somewhere in that darkness, the truth I don’t want to face: when I wake, I’ll have to look him in the eye, knowing what I dreamed, knowing exactly what I want.
Knowing that reality is never as perfect as dreams.
CHAPTER 8
ROARKE
Sunlight streamsthrough the inn’s crystal windows, scattering rainbows across Liana’s face. She sleeps on, oblivious to the spectacle, her cheek nestled against my chest, one arm slung over my torso, one leg tangled possessively with mine.
She’s wrapped herself around me like I’m her personal heater. I’ve been awake for hours, perfectly still, letting her cling to me. Training keeps me disciplined, but the urge to pull her closer, to relive that unity dream, is almost overwhelming.
Rodinians call it a unity dream. It’s how we know when our fate mate is close. For us, finding and cherishing our fated mate is everything—it’s the closest thing we have to a religion.
I spent a lifetime in war, half a galaxy from here, and now, of all places, I find my mate on Earth. It’s a cruel joke. Or maybe it’s cosmic comedy.
The magical storm is gone, leaving behind a charged hush. The air feels new, sharp with possibility. Or maybe that’s just me, hyper-aware of her breath against my fur, the soft weight of her body pressed to mine. She’s peaceful like this. No questions, nowild gestures, no tripping over chickens or dragon eggs. Just her, breathing softly, burrowing closer to my warmth.
I should wake her. We need to check the egg, start incubation, get back to her homestead. The logical part of my mind ticks off the priorities. But the rest of me, the part that’s already lost to her, fixates on the way her hair brushes my arm, the way her fingers twitch against my fur, the way she fits against me.
Pathetic. Three years of solitude, undone by one night of accidental sleep and a unity dream with Liana. Stars, when does she even sleep? If we’d ever synced up before, I would have known. Maybe we’re always out of phase. I believe it. Her life is chaos.
Her breathing shifts, shallow and uneven. Waking. I have three seconds to decide what to do. Does she remember the dream? Do humans even feel unity dreams? I could pretend to sleep. I could slip away. I could?—
Too late. She tenses, goes still, sucks in a sharp breath. Her heart races against my side. I open my eyes and look down at her, face blank. “Good morning.”
Her reaction is everything I hoped for. She bolts upright, nearly falling off the bed, face flaming as she clutches the sheet to her chest. Ridiculous. I’ve already seen her in those absurd bread-printed pajamas.
“I—I’m so sorry,” she stammers, hair wild, voice rough with sleep. “I didn’t mean to—I must have—in my sleep?—”
I sit up, letting the sheet drop to my waist. Her gaze flickers to my bare chest, then away. Her blush deepens. I keep my face neutral, but inside, I’m savoring every second.
“It’s fine,” I say.
“Fine?” Her voice cracks. “I was using you as a body pillow!”
You did more than that in dreams. I shrug, casual. “You were cold. It’s a natural response.”
She blinks, gears turning. Did she expect anger? Embarrassment? I’m neither. I’m smug, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Well,” she says, still clutching the sheet like armor, “it won’t happen again. I promise.”
