Page 46 of Just a Friend for the Lion

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I bury my face between her thighs like I’ve been lost in the goddamn desert and she’s the only water for miles.

My tongue moves in deep, desperate strokes, lapping up every drop of her slick like it’s the last thing I’ll ever taste.

She’s soaked. Sweet. Perfect.

And I’m feral for her.

I know my tongue’s different than a human’s.

Rougher. Thicker. Designed to dominate. Honed to tear flesh frombone.

There are a thousand little ridges, sharper than they look.

But here’s the catch—I can control all those little spikes just enough to drive her wild without hurting her.

It’s the Lion in me.

Out to play. Out to claim.

Her hips jerk.

Her fingers twist in my hair like she’s trying to anchor herself while I pull her under, and the sound she makes?

Fuck. It’s going to haunt me.

She’s close. So fucking close.

And I want her to come like this.

Raw.

Wrecked.

Mine.

I want it so bad, I’ll do anything to get it.

“Carter—oh my God?—”

She breaks with a cry, thighs squeezing tight around my head, her back arching off the chaise as she shakes through her climax.

I don’t stop. Not right away.

I own that orgasm.

I ride it out with her.

So good. Like warm brown sugar in my mouth.

Tongue dragging slow, savoring licks between her sweet, slick folds until she whimpers and begs me to stop.

Only then do I pull back, chest heaving, my lips and chin wet with proof of how much she wanted me.

No.

Wants me.

Always.

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