Page 63 of Purring for Her Lion
With a growl that comes from somewhere deep and primal inside me, I thrust forward one final time, pushing my swelling knot past her entrance. She cries out—pain and pleasure mingling in the sound—as her body stretches to accommodate me completely. At the same moment, I lean forward and sink my teeth into the nape of her neck, breaking the skin, tasting the metallic tang of her blood.
The effect is immediate and overwhelming. Heat explodes between us, a rush of energy that has nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the bond forming—soul to soul, essence to essence. I can feel her—not just her body around mine, but her emotions, her sensations, her very being.
She feels it too. I know she does because suddenly I’m experiencing what she’s experiencing—the fullness of me inside her, the pressure of my knot stretching her, the sharp sweet pain of my teeth in her neck. It’s a feedback loop of pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable.
My orgasm hits me like a physical blow, tearing a roar from my throat as I empty myself inside her. I can feel her coming again too, her inner walls milking my cock, drawing out every drop of my release. The amount is overwhelming, more than I’ve everproduced before, and even with my knot locking us together, some of our combined fluids leak out, running down her thighs in hot rivulets.
We stay like that for long moments, both of us trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure, both of us adjusting to the new awareness of each other that hums between us like a live wire. The bond. Complete. Irrevocable.
Eventually, I become aware that I’m still gripping her hips with bruising force. I release her immediately, wincing as I see the red marks my fingers have left on her skin. They’ll darken into bruises, I know—visible evidence of my lack of control.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, gently stroking the marks.
She turns her head to look at me, her expression dazed but blissful. “Don’t you dare apologize,” she says, her voice hoarse. “That was... I don’t even have words.”
Carefully, mindful of where we’re still connected, I maneuver us onto our sides. It will be at least twenty minutes before my knot subsides enough for us to separate, and I want her comfortable. I reach for the throw blanket we’d been using during the movie, draping it over us both.
She sighs contentedly, her body relaxing against mine, her legs tangled with mine. Through our new bond, I can feel her satisfaction, her happiness, her love for me radiating like warmth from a fire.
“I love you,” I tell her, nuzzling the bite mark on her neck. It’s already healing, the skin knitting together at a supernatural rate—another effect of the bond. It will leave a scar, though. A permanent mark declaring her as mine.
“I love you too,” she murmurs, already drifting toward sleep. “My lion. My mate.”
I hold her close, savoring the weight of her in my arms, the scent of her surrounding me, the feel of her life force now permanently entwined with mine. After years of solitude, of keeping everyone at a distance, I’ve found home in this chaotic, beautiful woman who bakes bread at 3 AM and names dragons after chicken.
And now she’s truly mine. As I am truly hers.
Forever.
EPILOGUE
LIANA
The hot chocolateburns a path down my throat, sweet and comforting as I curl my fingers around the mug.
Morning air kisses my skin, cool enough to raise goosebumps along my bare arms, but I don’t move. The sunrise spills gold across the fields, turning my little farm into something magical, something that still doesn’t feel quite real.
Three months ago, I was squeezing into crowded subway cars and dreaming of escape. Now I’m here—dirt under my fingernails, muscles aching in ways I never knew possible, and a seven-foot-tall alien veterinarian who growls more than he speaks sleeping in my bed.
At least, I thought he was sleeping.
I take another slow sip, letting the warmth spread through me as I drink in the view. My land—my actual land—stretches out before me, bathed in the soft pinks and burning golds of dawn. The chicken coop sits off to the right, where my ridiculous flock is probably still sleeping, huddled around the baby dragon who’s decided they’re his personal heated pillows. The vegetablegarden I’ve painstakingly cultivated is starting to show real promise, and beyond that, the goat pen that I never planned for but somehow acquired anyway.
Just like I never planned for Roarke.
A laugh bubbles up in my chest, quiet and private. If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be living on a small farm with a lion-man alien who fixes my fences without asking and glares at delivery people like they’re potential assassins, I would have had them committed. Yet here I am. Here we are.
The wooden boards of the porch creak beneath my bare feet as I shift my weight. I’m still getting used to this—the quiet, the space, the sense that I can breathe fully without bumping into someone else’s life. The city never sleeps, never pauses. But here, time stretches like honey, sweet and slow.
Movement in the goat pen catches my eye. Roarke. Of course he’s up early. Of course he’s already working. Of course he’s shirtless.
I don’t mean to stare, but...goddamn.
Golden fur catches the morning light, making him glow as he moves with that controlled power that never fails to make my stomach clench. His mane—that’s what I call it, though he insists it’s just “hair”—is pulled back in a tight braid that trails between his shoulder blades. Scars crisscross his back, silvery lines against the tawny fur that I’ve traced with my fingertips in the dark. He doesn’t talk about them. Doesn’t talk about much, really.
But his body speaks volumes.
He bends to fill the feed trough, muscles rippling beneath fur, and my mouth goes dry. His tail flicks behind him—a sure sign he’s concentrating—and I remember how that tail feels wrapped around my waist, my thigh, my ankle. How he uses it to pull me closer when he thinks I’m too far away, which is basically any time I’m not touching him.
