“You.” She clenched around his fingers, voice breaking just enough to ruin him. “Right now.”
“Say please.” He didn’t need the word, not really. He wanted to hear it in her mouth.
She laughed, breathless and wicked. “In your dreams.”
He grinned, more feral than amused, and slid two fingers inside her, curved just so. She gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “Dante.”
“That’s fine too.” He set a rhythm that made her shiver, thumb teasing, fingers pushing her open, wanting her messy and unguarded. Her scent bloomed, sweet and spiced, the scent of a lioness on the edge. He felt the Veil’s hum ride his skin, felt the tavern hold them like a secret.
“More,” she said, the word a command. He gave it, adding a third finger, slow to let her take it, loving the way she swore and bit his shoulder, loving the way she moved, meeting every curl of his hand with a roll of her hips that said she knew her body and wanted everything. He worked her until her breath fractured, until the muscles in her belly went tight under his palm, until she broke against his fingers with a low, fierce sound that made his lion bare its teeth in satisfaction.
He kept his hand on her, gentling, riding her through it, until the fine tremors eased. She blinked, hair sticking adorably to her temple, lips parted, eyes molten. “Convinced?” he asked softly.
“Shut up,” she said again, but there was no bite in it. She tugged his head down and kissed him hard. “Get the condom.”
He fumbled his wallet out of his jeans on the floor, mouth still chasing hers, and tore the packet with his teeth. She watched him roll it on, hunger and challenge sparking again. “You going to gloat?” she asked.
“Later.” He lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock sliding through her slick, and every thought burned to ash. Hethrust in slow, watching her face as he filled her, inch by inch, not stopping until her body took all of him and the snug heat squeezed him so tight he had to brace both hands on the wall to keep from losing it.
“Maeve,” he managed. “Tell me it’s okay.”
Her eyes lifted to his, bare and bright and wild. “Do it.”
He did. He set a rhythm that matched the furious beat in his blood, hips rolling, driving into her, pulling back, driving again. She rode him back, no softness, all power and want, the slap of skin a rude counterpoint to the quiet tavern. Her breath came hot against his mouth; his came rough against her ear. He kissed whatever he could reach—her throat, her cheek, the corner of her mouth—like a starving man tasting spring.
“Harder,” she said. “Stop thinking.”
He laughed and obeyed, grip tightening on her thigh, the other hand braced by her head. He moved like he wanted to claim the wall, the room, the night, and she met him beat for beat, fingers carving crescent moons in his shoulders, knees squeezing his ribs. They knocked a framed photo a little crooked. He didn’t care. Let the memory hang real.
“Talk to me,” she said, voice breaking again, not fragile, honest. “Tell me.”
“That you’re perfect like this,” he said, thrust catching, eyes locked to hers. “That I’ve wanted you for years. That your pussy is so good I’m forgetting my own name.”
She laughed, then choked on a moan when he changed the angle and hit that place inside that made her go tight around him. “There,” she said, urgent. “Do that again.”
He did, over and over, hips grinding, giving her exactly what she asked for, taking everything she gave back. The lion in him purred deep and low, pleased with the fight and the surrender braided together. Heat crawled up his spine, gathered at the base of his skull, pushed down his muscles in pulses. He felt hergetting close again, the flutter around him, the telltale grip of her hands.
“Come for me,” he said into her ear, voice shaking. “Come on, Maeve. Give it to me.”
She cursed, beautiful and raw, and shattered around him, body clamping hard, head tipping back against the wall. He held her through it, thrusting once more, twice, then gave up any thought of control and followed, groaning her name as pleasure tore him open. He pumped into the condom, hands full of lioness, everything in him lit in gold.
They stayed like that, pressed to the wall, panting, sweat cooling on skin, the world slowly coming back into focus. The hearth gave a soft crack. Snow whispered against the windows. The Veil’s hum eased, satisfied.
He lowered her carefully, making sure she was steady before he pulled out and tied off the condom. He stepped back, chest heaving, and looked at her.
She looked back, face flushed, hair wild, lips kiss-bruised. Pride lived there in her eyes. Gratitude maybe. Something softer that scared him more than any fight.
“Maeve—”
“Don’t,” she said, voice even. She bent, picked up her sweater, and pulled it on with quick, efficient movements. “This was not a conversation.”
“You want me to pretend that didn’t happen?”
“I want you to lock up,” she said, buttoning her jeans, not meeting his eyes now. “Make sure the back door’s secure. Put a chair under the front handle for me.”
“Maeve.” He took a step, stopped when she shot him a look that could slice bark.
“Don’t make this harder.” She grabbed her coat from the peg, slid it on, and finally looked up. Something vulnerable flickered and vanished. “I needed that.”
