Page 52 of Purring for Her Lion
“Yes,” I breathe, spreading my legs wider in shameless invitation. “Please, Roarke.”
He positions himself at my entrance, the broad head of his cock parting my folds. Even in the dream-haze, there’s a moment of uncertainty—he’s so big, too big, surely I can’t take all of him—but then he’s pushing forward, stretching me deliciously, and my body yields to him like it was made for exactly this.
“So tight,” he hisses, his jaw clenched with the effort of restraint. “So perfect for me.”
He fills me inch by glorious inch, the slight burn of the stretch only enhancing the pleasure. When he’s fully seated, our bodies flush together, he stills, giving me time to adjust. His forehead presses against mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
“I’ve needed this,” he murmurs, his voice strained. “Needed you. But I would have waited forever until you were ready.”
Before I can respond, he begins to move, pulling out almost completely before driving back in with a force that makes me cry out in ecstasy. The rhythm he sets is relentless, each thrust hitting places inside me that I didn’t know could feel so good.
“Mine,” he growls with each snap of his hips. “My mate. My Liana.”
I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, my nails digging into the fur of his back. The coil of pleasure tightens again, impossibly fast, building toward something even more intense than before.
“I can feel you getting close,” he says, his voice rough with exertion. “Come for me again. Let me feel you squeeze my cock.”
His words, filthy and perfect, combined with the sensation of his massive length hitting just the right spot inside me, send me over the edge again. I clench around him, wave after wave of pleasure washing through me as I cry out his name.
“Yes,” he snarls, his thrusts becoming erratic. “That’s it. Take every inch of me. Take all of it.”
With a final, powerful thrust, he stiffens above me, his cock pulsing inside me as he finds his own release. The sensation of his hot seed filling me triggers another small climax, my inner walls milking him for every drop.
As we lay tangled together, his weight a comforting pressure on top of me, he nuzzles my neck, placing gentle kisses along my jawline.
“Rest now,” he murmurs, his voice fading as the dream begins to dissolve around the edges. “I’ll be here when you wake. I will always be here for you.”
But even as his words echo in my mind, I can feel myself drifting away from him, from the dream, to a deeper place where there is nothing but a comforting darkness. I cling to the sensation of his body against mine for as long as I can, trying to memorize every detail before it slips away like water through my fingers.
A weekafter my fever breaks, and I’m still having trouble looking Roarke in the eye. Not because he took care of me—though the memory of him spoon-feeding me arroz caldo while I was half-delirious is embarrassing enough—but because of what my fever-addled brain conjured up while I was sick.
The dreams were so vivid, so explicit, that for a horrifying moment when I first woke up without a fever, I was convincedI’d actually done those things with him. Said those things to him. It took me a solid five minutes of mental gymnastics to confirm that no, I had not, in fact, had several nights of mind-blowing sex with my lion-man neighbor while running a 102-degree fever.
Small mercies.
As soon as I was coherent enough to operate laundry machinery, I’d stripped his bed, washed everything twice, and fled back to my own house like I was being chased by rabid pineapples.
That was two days ago. Since then, our interactions have been limited to him checking if I’m okay (I’m fine, totally fine, absolutely nothing weird happening in my brain at all), and me thanking him profusely for taking care of me yet again (while studiously avoiding eye contact and hoping he can’t somehow read dreams through my forehead).
I’ve become exceptionally good at ignoring things I don’t want to deal with. Like the fact that Nugget, who was the size of a German Shepherd last month, is now officially in pony territory. At this rate, by Christmas I’ll be able to saddle him up and trot into town for supplies.
Right now, he’s giving the chickens their daily tour of the yard, Chestnut perched on his head like a feathery general directing troops, and Buttercup riding his tail, which he’s learned to keep perfectly level for her comfort. The rest of the flock struts alongside him, occasionally darting off to investigate bugs before rejoining the procession.
“That’s right, keep it steady,” I call from the porch, where I’m sketching out designs for my Harvest Festival display. “Buttercup gets motion sickness.”
Nugget gives me a look that somehow conveys both deep affection and schoolboy exasperation. He’s getting that toddler dragon attitude that Roarke warned me about. The “I-can-do-it” sense of independence, but it mostly manifests as side-eye and occasional long-suffering sighs that produce smoke rings.
The teenaged version of Nugget will be a hoot to look forward to.
At least Roarke says it won’t happen for a bit.
Roarke. There I go again, circling back to him like my thoughts are stuck in some kind of gravitational pull. I haven’t properly thanked him for everything he did while I was sick. Not just the nursing and the feeding and the carrying me to bed (which I’m still pretending I don’t know about), but the little things. The way he brought my laptop so I could check on client projects between naps. How he set up a tablet with the Harmony Glen community forum so I could keep up with Harvest Festival plans. The sticky notes he left on my medication with precise timing instructions.
He took care of me. Really took care of me. Not just the basics, but all the specific, unique things that make me me. He didn’t try to make me rest when my brain needed to work, didn’t lecture me about taking on too much, didn’t suggest I scale back my festival plans or client commitments. He just made it all possible.
I look up from my sketchbook to watch Nugget carefully lowering himself so Peaches can climb onto his back, joining the chicken convoy. The gentle way he handles them, despite his growing size and strength, reminds me so much of Roarke. How someone so powerful can be so careful with fragile things.
The truth I’ve been avoiding hits me like a bag of flour dropped from a top shelf: I love him.
