He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
“What feels right,” he whispers.
It hits me low in the gut. My wine glass trembles in my hand. I want to run. I want to stay. I want to throw this whole moment into a time capsule and never let it die.
So I kiss him.
Our mouths meet like we’re mid-conversation, like we’ve always been saying this in another language and only just found the words. My hand slides up his chest—hot, solid, alive—and hooks into the fabric of his shirt. I feel the ridges of his scaled skin through it, the rise and fall of muscles that were born for war. He smells like ozone and something darker, spiced metal and adrenaline.
He pulls me close with a groan deep in his chest. The kind of sound that makes heat bloom low and fast.
The kiss tilts, sharpens. His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing along my cheek like he’s memorizing the curve.
My wine glass slips from my grip and hits the tile with a soft crash, red liquid spreading across the floor like a quiet surrender.
Neither of us looks.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, like I’m something precious. My legs hook instinctively around his waist, my breath caught somewhere between anticipation and abandon. His lips find my neck, a soft bite at the base of my throat that draws a gasp I don’t bother to muffle.
He shoulders the door open and sets me gently onto the bed, hovering just above me, watching.
“Are you sure?” he murmurs.
I answer with my hands.
My fingers find the line of his jaw, the scar that bisects his collarbone, the hidden soft places that armor never touches. He shudders under my touch, eyes fluttering closed for a moment like he can’t bear the weight of it.
I pull him down.
The kiss that follows is deeper. Slower. A kind of worship. His hands are everywhere—ribs, hips, the small of my back—exploring, learning, not demanding. His mouth finds the hollow of my throat, the curve of my shoulder, places that don’t see daylight.
He groans against my skin when I slip my fingers into his hair—coarse, thick, not quite human. His body shifts above me, massive and hot and hard in every way, a furnace in the shape of a man. A monster. A protector. A want I’ve never let myself voice until now.
“Stars,” I whisper when his hand slips under my top. His palm is enormous, spanning from my waist to ribs. The heat of him makes me arch.
“You’re so small,” he breathes, voice low, reverent. “So… soft.”
“And you’re built like a battleship,” I murmur, breathless.
His cock is already hard, massive, straining against his waistband. I can feel it pressing between us, and my body clenches in anticipation. There’s no fear, only want—fierce, sharp, and unapologetic.
“Voltar,” I gasp as he shifts lower, dragging his lips down my sternum, over the curve of one breast, his breath hot and reverent. “Touch me.”
He doesn’t ask again.
He slides my pants down, kisses his way along the line of my hip like it’s sacred. His claws never scratch, never hurt. His hands are gentle, controlled, worshipping. He spreads my legs, eyes drinking me in like I’m more than flesh—like I’m the center of gravity.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice guttural. “You’re beautiful.”
And then his mouth is on my pussy.
The first lick steals the air from my lungs. He’s careful, slow at first, his tongue hot and too long, swirling and teasing around my clit with maddening precision. I grab at the sheets, my hips jerking up, and he growls in approval.
“You taste like heat,” he says against me. “Like trouble.”
His tongue slides deeper, and I cry out, high and helpless. No one’s ever touched me like this. No one’s ever made me feel like falling apart was a privilege.
I’m shaking when he rises, eyes blazing gold, his scaled chest heaving. He strips with brutal efficiency—pauldrons, undershirt, belt, everything tossed aside. His body is a work of devastation: red scales gleaming, scars like constellations across his chest, ridges running along his shoulders and arms like armor the gods forged.
