Page 59 of Purring for Her Lion
My toes curl when he goes in again, ravenous, this time insatiable, French-kissing my cunt and sucking on my juices as his tongue slithers into my hole, so deep. I’m seeing stars and I thrash and I’m crying out as though in pain. But it’s so good, so fucking good. I’m losing the threads of my thoughts and I’m terrified I’ll soon forget my name.
When I come, it’s with his name on my lips, my hands fisted in his mane, my body convulsing with pleasure so intense it borders on pain. He works me through it, gentling his touch as I come down, until I’m boneless and gasping.
“Who knew,” I pant when I can speak again, “that all it would take to fix my insomnia was multiple orgasms?”
Roarke chuckles against my inner thigh, placing one last kiss there before rising to his full height. “I’ve been telling you for weeks. Proper incentives are key to behavioral change.”
“Is that the veterinarian in you talking?” I tease, sitting up to reach for his belt. “Treating me like one of your patients?”
His eyes darken, and he captures my hands in his. “You are nothing like my patients, Liana.” The way he says my name, like it’s something precious, sends a shiver down my spine. “You are mine in a way nothing and no one else has ever been.”
Later, much later, when we’re tangled together in his bed—our bed—I trace patterns in the fur of his chest and think about roots. About how they grow slowly, invisibly, anchoring you to a place so gradually you don’t notice until one day, you realize you can’t imagine being anywhere else.
“What are you thinking about?” Roarke asks, his voice a low rumble in the darkness.
I smile against his skin. “Home,” I tell him honestly. “I’m thinking about home.”
His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer to his side where I fit perfectly. “Good,” he says simply. “Because you are.”
And for the first time in my life, I believe it. I am home. Here, in this strange, magical town. Here, with my dragon son and my chicken daughters. Here, with this man who loves every chaotic, impulsive, baking-at-3AM part of me.
I am finally, wonderfully, home.
The late afternoonsun spills across my property, painting the grass in golden light. I’m showing Roarke my latest chicken coop expansion plans—complete with illustrations that definitelydon’t look like they were drawn by a five-year-old with a crayon—when I notice he’s not looking at my meticulously crafted blueprint. He’s looking at me with that expression, the one that means he’s made a decision about something and is just waiting for me to catch up to whatever conclusion he’s already reached.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, squinting suspiciously. We’re standing near the northern edge of my property, where the land is open and untouched. The gentle slope offers a perfect view of both our properties and the mountains beyond.
He doesn’t answer immediately, just continues giving me that quietly intense stare, his golden eyes tracking my every movement as if I’m some fascinating new species he’s cataloging.
“Seriously, what? Do I have flour in my hair again?” I reach up self-consciously to check, though I haven’t baked anything since this morning’s sourdough experiment.
“No flour,” he says, his deep voice rumbling in that way that still makes my stomach flip. He turns to survey the open field before us, tail swishing thoughtfully behind him. “This space. It’s good.”
I follow his gaze, trying to see what he sees. It’s just land—beautiful land, sure, with those ancient oak trees providing natural shade and the slight elevation offering good drainage, but still just an empty field.
“Good for what?” I ask. “Another chicken run? Because I was thinking maybe closer to the house would be better for winter?—”
“This is where I’m building our house,” Roarke says, and I choke on air.
“Our—our house?” The words come out as a squeak.
“Yes.” He says it so matter-of-factly, as if he’s commenting on the weather rather than casually announcing a life-altering decision.
I stare at him, mouth working silently as my brain attempts to process this bombshell. Our house. Our. House. As in, a house for both of us. Together. Permanently.
“You just—you just decided that? Without asking me?” I finally manage, gesturing wildly at the field that’s apparently going to be the site of our shared future.
He tilts his head, regarding me with that infuriating calm. “Do I have to ask when it’s what you actually want?”
My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. How the hell does he do that? Because a new house is what I wanted. In this exact space.
The thought of a house built for both of us, with spaces designed for my chaos and his order, with room for Nugget to grow and the chickens to roam... it makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
But still. The principle of the thing. “You can at least pretend.”
He kisses my forehead. “Noted for next time.”
“There better not be a next time,” I mutter. Finally, I cross my arms and huff. “Well. It better have a big kitchen.”
