Page 61 of Purring for Her Lion
Home. Not just a place, but a person. My person.
CHAPTER 20
ROARKE
The movie plays on,but I stopped paying attention twenty minutes ago.
All I can focus on is Liana—her scent filling my living room, her body curled against mine on the couch, her fingers absently stroking the fur on my forearm.
This is the first night she’s officially living here, her boxes stacked in neat piles I organized while she chaotically unpacked what she deemed “essentials.”
The significance of it settles in my chest like a physical weight. She’s here. Mine. In my space. In my home.
But not yet fully bonded in the way my body craves with an intensity that shocks even me.
She shifts against me, and her scent changes subtly—the warm bread and cinnamon notes deepening, gaining an edge of honey and salt that signals her arousal. My nostrils flare, taking it in, and my body responds instantly, a low rumble building in my chest without conscious permission.
“You’re not watching the movie either, are you?” she murmurs, tilting her head to look up at me with those dark eyes that see too much.
“No,” I admit, not bothering to hide the roughness in my voice.
Her lips curve into that smile that always unravels me—half mischief, half invitation. “What are you thinking about, then?”
Instead of answering, I slide my hand into her hair, cradling the back of her head as I lean down to capture her mouth. She responds immediately, melting against me with a small sound that sends heat spiraling through my core.
The kiss deepens, my tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opens for me.
She tastes like the sweet wine she’s been sipping, like the chocolate-covered strawberries she insisted were essential movie-watching fare. But underneath those flavors is her—just her—and I could drown in it.
My hand tightens in her hair, tilting her head to give me better access. Her fingers clutch at my shoulders, nails digging into fur and skin, and the slight sting only intensifies my desire. The movie drones on, forgotten background noise as we devour each other on the couch.
When she pulls back to breathe, her cheeks are flushed, her pupils dilated. “Maybe we should pause the movie,” she suggests, voice husky.
I reach for the remote without looking, hitting buttons until the screen goes dark. I don’t care if it’s paused or turned off entirely. Nothing matters except getting her beneath me, around me, taking all of me.
She surprises me, though, sliding from my grasp to stand before me. Her gaze never leaves mine as she reaches for the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head in one fluid motion. The simple gray cotton falls to the floor, forgotten, as she stands there in just her bra and those soft sleep pants that hang low on her hips.
“You’re staring,” she says, but there’s no self-consciousness in her voice—only a pleased confidence that makes my cock throb.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, because it’s true and because I know how it affects her when I speak plainly.
The flush on her cheeks deepens, spreads down her neck to her chest. She reaches behind her back, unhooking her bra and letting it join her shirt on the floor. Her breasts are perfect—fuller than when I first met her, her body responding to the steady meals I ensure she eats, the rest I make sure she gets. I want to mark them, to taste them, to watch them bounce as she rides me.
As if reading my thoughts, she hooks her thumbs into her pants and pushes them down her hips, taking her underwear with them. She steps out of the pooled fabric, now gloriously, completely naked, her scent filling the room with a potency that makes my mouth water.
“Your turn,” she says, her gaze dropping pointedly to my sweatpants where my erection strains against the fabric.
I stand, towering over her in a way that once made her nervous but now only seems to excite her. I strip quickly, efficiently, not bothering with a show. When I’m naked, her eyes roam over me hungrily, lingering on my cock—fully erect, proportional to my size, intimidating to most but never to her.
“Come here,” I growl, sinking back onto the couch and reaching for her.
But again, she surprises me. Instead of coming into my arms, she places her hands on my shoulders and pushes me back against the cushions. Then she straddles me, her knees on either side of my hips, her hot center hovering just above where I need her most.
“I want to ride you,” she says, her voice a mixture of command and question.
I answer by gripping her hips, my hands nearly spanning her entire waist, and pulling her down to rub against my length. She’s already wet—so wet—her slick heat gliding along my shaft and coating me in her essence.
“Fuck,” I hiss, fighting the urge to thrust up into her. “You’re soaked.”
