His bedroom is like the rest of his apartment—spacious, uncluttered, dominated by a massive bed with simple, high-quality linens. He sets me down at the foot of it, his hands lingering at my waist.
“We don’t have to—” he starts, and I press my fingers to his lips.
“I want this,” I say, holding his gaze. “I want you.”
Something flares in his dark eyes—heat, hunger, relief. He leans down, pressing his forehead to mine, the base of his horns warm against my skin.
“I’m not...” He pauses, searching for words. “I’m larger than human men. In every way.”
I smile, trailing my hand down his chest, over the hard ridges of his abdomen, lower still. “I’m counting on it.”
He groans, a deep, primal sound that vibrates through me. Then his mouth is on mine again, more urgent now, his hands moving to the hem of my shirt, tugging it upward. I raise my arms, helping him, and then my shirt is gone, tossed aside. His gaze drops to my simple cotton bra, and I resist the urge to cover myself.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of the fabric with one finger. The touch is so light, so careful, a stark contrast to his size. It makes something in my chest twist with longing.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly in my eagerness. He helps me, shrugging it off to reveal a broad expanse of tanned skin stretched over defined muscle. My mouth goes dry at the sight of him.
“Can I touch you?” I ask, already reaching.
His response is to take my hand and place it directly over his heart. I can feel it hammering beneath my palm, proof that he’s as affected as I am. I explore him slowly, tracing the contours of his chest, the dips and valleys of his abdomen, the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his waistband.
When I reach for his belt, his hands cover mine, stilling them.
“Let me take care of you first,” he says, his voice rough with want.
Before I can protest, he’s turning me, finding the zipper of my skirt and drawing it down with tantalizing slowness. The fabric pools at my feet, leaving me in just my underwear. I step out of the skirt, kicking it aside, and turn to face him again.
His eyes darken as they sweep over me. “I’ve imagined this,” he admits. “Too many times.”
“Show me,” I challenge, emboldened by the raw desire in his gaze.
He sinks to his knees before me—a massive, powerful Minotaur on his knees for me—and the sight alone is almost enough to undo me. He hooks his fingers in the elastic of my underwear, looking up at me for permission. I nod, and he slides them down my legs, his breath warm against my skin.
“Lay back,” he instructs, and I do, scooting up onto the bed, my heart hammering as he follows.
He starts at my ankles, pressing kisses to the delicate bones there, then works his way up my calves, the backs of my knees, my thighs. Each touch is reverent, worshipful. By the time he reaches the apex of my thighs, I’m trembling.
“Please,” I whisper, not even knowing what I’m begging for.
He smiles against my skin, his horns brushing my inner thighs as he settles between them. “I’ve got you.”
The first touch of his tongue against my center tears a gasp from my throat. He’s methodical here too, exploring with broad strokes and precise flicks, learning what makes me writhe and what makes me moan. When he finds a particularly sensitive spot, he focuses there, circling his tongue with maddening precision.
My hands find his horns, gripping them for purchase as pleasure builds within me. The texture is smooth, warm, alive. I feel him groan against me at the contact, the vibration adding to the sensation.
“Yes,” he growls, encouraging. “Hold onto them.”
I tighten my grip, and he rewards me by slipping a finger inside me, curling it in a way that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. He adds a second, stretching me gently, preparing me, all while his tongue continues its relentless attention to my clit.
The pressure builds and builds until I’m teetering on the edge, my thighs trembling, my breath coming in short gasps. And then he sucks—just the right pressure, just the right moment—and I’m falling, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me.
He works me through it, gentling his touch as I become sensitive, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs as I catch my breath. When I finally open my eyes, he’s watching me with a mix of satisfaction and barely contained desire.
“Come here,” I murmur, tugging weakly at his shoulders.
He moves up my body, his weight supported on his forearms as he hovers over me. I reach for him, pulling him down for a kiss that tastes of me and him and hunger.
“I want to touch you,” I say against his mouth. “Let me.”
