Close enough that my breath mingles with hers, that the tips of our noses nearly touch, that the entire world narrows to the space between our mouths and the charged air that occupies it.
“You’re going to be nice and loud for me?”
The words land on her lips like a match on gasoline.
She doesn’t answer.
I don’t need her to.
Because I know—with the certainty of a man who has spent three years learning this woman’s body the way a musician learns an instrument, memorizing every point of pleasure and every threshold of resistance, cataloguing every gasp and moan and bitten-back cry that she produces when the walls come down and the void retreats and Victoria Sinclair allows herself, for a few stolen minutes, to be something other than empty?—
She’ll be screaming my name by the end of this.
That’s a promise to my feral self.
CHAPTER 4
Feast Of Prey
~HAWK~
The air between us thickens like smoke from a controlled burn—dense, deliberate, laced with the promise of destruction if not handled with precision.
Victoria’s scent wraps around me tighter now, that intoxicating blend of cold iris petals crushed underfoot in a midnight storm, sweetened by the undercurrent of her arousal that her suppressants can’t fully muzzle. It’s a siren call to the feral beast coiled inside me, the one that paces restlessly behind bars forged from sheer willpower and the stabilizing anchor of her presence.
My cock strains against the boxers, aching with a heat that mirrors the fire building in my veins, but I hold back. Always hold back at the start.
Because this isn’t just about release; it’s about unraveling her, layer by deliberate layer, until the Emotionless Queen crumbles into the woman only I get to see.
She’s perched on the edge of the table, thighs parted just enough to frame me, the black leather of her bodysuit gleaming under the afternoon light filtering through the grimy kitchen window.
The fabric hugs her like a second skin, accentuating the subtle swell of her hips, the dip of her waist, the way her breasts rise and fall with breaths she’s trying—and failing—to steady. Her storm-gray eyes lock onto mine, pupils blown wide, the cobalt rings around them thinning to near invisibility.
There’s defiance there, always defiance, but it’s threaded with need, a silent plea wrapped in the armor of her silence.
I pin her down slowly, my hands sliding from her hips to her shoulders, guiding her back until her spine meets the cool wood of the table. She doesn’t resist—doesn’t need to.
Her body arches slightly as she settles, the movement pulling the leather taut over her chest, her nipples pebbling against the fabric from the chill or the anticipation or both. I loom over her, bracing one hand beside her head, the other trailing down her side, careful to skirt the bandaged wound at her ribs.
The reminder of last night’s near-miss sends a flicker of fury through me, but I channel it into focus. She’s here. Alive. Mine to protect, mine to pleasure, mine to remind that existence can be more than just enduring.
“You’re going to feel every second of this,” I murmur, my voice a low rumble that vibrates through the space between us. Her lips part, but no words escape—just a soft exhale that ghosts across my face, carrying the faint mint of her toothpaste and the deeper, intrinsic taste of her.
I start at her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat, feeling her pulse jump under my tongue like a trapped bird fluttering against bars.
She tilts her head back instinctively, exposing more skin, and I take it—nipping lightly at the junction where her neck meets her shoulder, soothing the sting with a slow lick. Her scent spikes, sharper now, and a faint tremor runs through her body.
I admire how she looks so perfect in this bodysuit, how it simply actuates her body and curve in all forms. It also protectsher tab wound, which he had every intention of avoiding, but everywhere else? Everywhere else is mine to claim. I slide the fabric aside her pussy, exposing her glistening cunt to the cool air, watching as her nipples harden further against the leather fabric, begging for attention.
I lean down, tugging at the fabric enough to set her breasts free, allowing me to capture on of those hard pebbles one in my mouth, swirling my tongue around the peak while my hand cups the other, thumb circling in tandem. Victoria’s back arches off the table, a soft gasp escaping her—quiet, controlled, but there. Always there, that first crack in her facade.
I work her like that for minutes, alternating between her breasts, lavishing them with attention until her breaths come in shallow pants, her fingers threading into my hair, gripping just tight enough to sting.
The pain grounds me, keeps the feral edge at bay, reminds me that this is us—balanced on the knife’s edge of control and chaos.
I trail kisses lower, down the valley between her breasts, over the flat plane of her stomach, dipping my tongue into her navel just to feel her squirm. Her legs part wider as I descend, her thighs trembling faintly under my palms as I spread them further, hooking her knees over the table’s edge to expose her completely.
She’s glistening, wet and ready, her folds swollen with need, the scent of her arousal hitting me like a punch to the gut. Cold iris and rain-soaked earth, sweetened by that Omega honey that makes my mouth water.
