He lifts my chin. “Maybe I’m not ready to stop caring.”
And just like that, the dam breaks. Our mouths meet—clumsy, fierce, aching. It’s not delicate. It’s not clean. It’s everything we are right now—desperate and on fire.
The kiss we started doesn’t end. It escalates.
There’s no finesse, no poetry. Just war. Tongues clashing like blades. Mouths devouring like we’ve been starved for years. Hands gripping fabric, flesh, anything solid to remind us we’re still real. Still here. Still allowed to feel.
Kenron growls—a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my chest like a battle drum—and I answer with a gasp as I tug his belt free. The metal buckle clangs to the floor.
“Kristi,” he breathes against my jaw, his voice fractured, raw.
I kiss him again. Harder. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing and sets me down on the makeshift table. The wood creaks under us. The smell of old spice and oil clings to everything, but all I smell is him—sweat and scorched leather and something uniquely Vakutan. Bitter and warm, like charred cedar and lightning.
My shirt hits the ground.
His armor drops, piece by piece, each with a metallic thunk that feels like shedding centuries.
I run my hands over his chest, his scales warm and slick under my palms, tracing old scars with reverence and rage. His muscles ripple beneath my fingers—firm, immense, alien in ways that make my thighs ache.
“You shouldn’t still want me,” I whisper.
“I shouldn’t still breathe,” he snaps back.
His mouth crashes into mine again, and the kiss is brutal and sweet, lips and teeth and tongue fighting for every ounce of air we’ll never get enough of. His hands grip my thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and I welcome it—every sting, every scratch, every reminder that this is real.
Pants hit the floor. Then the rest.
I reach for his cock and I can feel him pulse beneath my palm, hot and thick and scaled in places that make me gasp. He growls again, shuddering when I stroke him, a bead of precum slicking my fingers. He’s impossibly hard, the length of him fitting in my hand like a weapon crafted for war and worship.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” I whisper.
His breath stutters. “Say that again.”
“You’re beautiful,” I repeat, slower, threading the words with everything I’ve never said.
He grabs my hips and pulls me forward, my pussy slick and aching, throbbing with need. He presses the tip of his cock to me and we both go still.
“This okay?” he asks, voice trembling with restraint.
“Yes.”
Then he pushes into me.
I cry out, biting my lip hard, my body stretching to take him. He’s huge, too much, just right, every inch deeper wringing a sound from me I didn’t know I could make. My fingers claw his shoulders, scraping scales.
“Shit,” I breathe. “Kenron...”
He answers in Vakutan—words like gravel and thunder, soft and savage in equal measure. He presses his forehead to mine as he buries himself to the hilt.
“You feel like fire,” he groans. “Like home.”
We move. Slow, at first, savoring the stretch, the wet heat, the unbearable pleasure of fitting together so completely. Then faster. Hungrier.
My heels dig into his back. My pussy clenches around his cock, milking him, drawing him deeper.
