His amber eyes are fixed on mine.Mine. Not his. Mine.The thought is not his; it’s mine. The bond, which has been a confusing, guilty ache, flares into a bright, undeniable certainty. He is mine, and I just fought the wilderness for him.
He groans, not from the fever, but from stiffness, and tries to shift his massive body, to sit up. The movement is awkward. He is clearly in pain, but it is not just his shoulder. He grunts and tries to move his hips, to roll onto his good side, but his leathers are... tight.
My gaze drops.
I see it. Through the strain of his breeches, his body, finally free of the poison, is powerfully, unmistakably hard. He is not just alive; he isalive. He sees me notice and freezes, his jaw clenching. A low, frustrated growl vibrates in his chest—a sound of pure, masculine embarrassment.
He is a wounded warrior, trapped by his own body's needs. He looks so... uncomfortable. My face flushes, but it is not with fear. It is with a new, fierce, protective warmth. He is in pain. I can... help.
This is not a 'Lady Doll' being ordered,I think, my own hands shaking.This is my choice. He is my clan. I will not let him be in pain.
I lean forward. "You are... in discomfort," I whisper.
He just stares, his amber eyes wide, his breath hitched, not understanding.
Before I can lose my nerve, I move. My small, trembling hand reaches out. His good hand fists in the hay, bracing. I do not touch his face. I do not touch his chest. My hand lands on him, over his leathers, covering the long, hard ridge. Hegasps, a sharp, stunned sound, his whole body going rigid.
I am his mate. I will take care of him. I don’t wait for permission. I lower my head.
My fingers shake as I tug at the heavy laces of his breeches, but they are swollen with his need, the leather straining. One hard yank and the knot gives. The thick hide parts, and his cock surges free; heavy, burning hot, impossibly huge.
It slaps against his ridged stomach with a wet sound, the broad, flushed head already slick and shining. The scent of him; musk, iron. His raw male seed floods my mouth, my own thighs clench.
I have never done this. I have only heard the other maids whisper crude jokes in the kitchens. But I want it. I want to taste the proof that he is alive because of me.
He makes a strangled sound when my small hand tries to close around him and fails. My fingers cannot meet. The heat of him sears my palm, velvet over steel, veins pulsing under my grip. I stroke once, slow and clumsy, and his hips jerk so hard the hay beneath us crackles.
“Aurora…” It is a warning, a plea, a prayer all in one broken growl.
I ignore it. I lean down and drag my tongue up the underside of him, from the thick root to the flared crown, tasting salt and fever-sweat and something darker, something that is only him. His whole body shudders. I open my mouth as wide as I can and take the head inside.
It is too much. My jaw aches instantly, stretched wide around his girth. He is so thick my lips burn, saliva already spilling from the corners of my mouth. I push forward anyway, greedy, desperate to take more, until the blunt head nudges my throat and I gag, eyes watering.
He groans like a dying man, fingers tightening in my hair. I gasp at his grip.
I pull back with a wet pop, gasp a breath, and sink down again, deeper this time. My throat fights me, but I force it open, swallowing around him, tears streaming down my cheeks.
The sounds I make are obscene. Wet, sloppy and helpless and I love them. I love the way his thighs tremble under my forearms, the way his breath saws in and out like bellows.
I find a rhythm, awkward and frantic, one hand pumping what my mouth cannot reach, the other braced on his hip. His hips start to move in tiny, aborted thrusts he clearly fights to control. I want him to lose that fight. I want him ruined.
“Look at me,” I rasp around him, voice wrecked.
His eyes snap open. They are molten amber, pupils blown wide, and the reverence in them nearly undoes me. I hold his stare and take him as deep as I can, swallowing hard, throat fluttering around the invasion. A guttural roar rips from his chest.
The first pulse is a warning (hot, thick, flooding my mouth). I try to swallow, but there is too much. It spills over my tongue, down my throat, leaks from the corners of my stretched lips in thick, creamy ropes.
I choke, cough, keep swallowing, greedy for every drop. It is endless, spurt after spurt, salty and bitter and perfect. I am drowning in him, until I swear I feel the heat of it pool low in my belly, in my womb, in every secret place inside me.
He is shaking, great shudders wracking his massive frame, my name a broken chant on his lips. Only when the last pulse fades do I pull off slowly, reluctantly, lips swollen and shining, chin dripping with him.
I am lost in the intimacy, the strange, powerful feeling of claiming him. His good hand is tangled in my hair, his body a tense, shuddering mountain.
Crunch.
The sound of a heavy boot on gravel outside.
We both freeze.
