And I do. That’s the scary part. I feel gross, sticky, and thoroughly used in the best way possible. I need a bath almost as much as the clan needs water. But lying here on the hard stone, covered in sweat and dust, still joined to him like this… I don’t want to leave.
But we have to. Eventually.
I try to pass the time by organizing my thoughts. Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t want to focus on anything that will make me think hard. Instead, my gaze drifts to Sarven’s chest. To the way the muscles of his abdomen flex against my stomach.
He’s really hard, my brain supplies helpfully.I wonder if I licked that line of muscle right there?—
Sarven’s hips snap forward.
“Yes,” his voice booms in my head, eager and hot.
“Stop!” I yelp, slapping a hand over my eyes. “Don’t listen to that! That was private!”
He chuckles a low rumble that vibrates directly against my clit.
“No privacy,” he projects, and I swear he sounds delighted by this development. “I hear all. You want to lick.”
“I don’t want to lick right now!” I lie.
“You lie,” he tilts his head.
“Oh my god, you’re insufferable.”
“I am mated,” he corrects.
Finally, after what feels like an hour of me trying to think about baseball stats and Sarven aggressively broadcasting his satisfaction, the pressure shifts. The bulb at the base finally softens enough to release me, even if the rest of him is still enthusiastic.
When gravity finally takes over and he slides free, Sarven sits up, his movements stiff as he adjusts to his new, slightly broader frame. His golden skin has mostly returned, just a few spots ofstars slowly fading now. He looks at me, his gaze sweeping over my body with a heavy, hooded possessiveness that makes my toes curl.
Then he looks at my clothes.
Or, what’s left of them.
My scale-tunic has pieces missing, and the rest are basically hanging on by a prayer and some sinew.
Sarven’s brow tightens.
“No armor,” he projects. “Skin soft. Rock sharp.”
“I know,” I say, sitting up and wincing as gravity reminds me of my sore muscles. “But unless you have a spare dress in that magic pouch of yours, this is what I’ve got.”
He looks at the pouch attached to his hip. Then he looks down at his own waist. He’s wearing his harness straps, but nothing else. No hidden pockets. No spare clothes.
I guess I don’t have a choice. I sigh, reaching for the sad little heap of my scale-tunic, shimmying into it. It’s worse for wear, but it covers the essentials. Mostly.
“It’ll do,” I say, adjusting a scale that’s trying to dislodge.
Sarven is standing by the tunnel entrance, checking his knife.
He is still naked.
And because we just spent an hour knotted, and because he is looking at me with that dark, possessive hunger, he isn’t exactly in a resting state. He is semi-hard, heavy and thick, swaying slightly as he moves.
I stare.
My brain immediately supplies a high-definition replay of exactly what that felt like inside me.
Heat.
