seven
TAMSIN
After Counselor Patel left, I spent nearly an hour studying the cultural guidelines she’d sent to my tablet, absorbing as much as I could about hellhound customs and hierarchy. All while Solantus remained kneeling, patient and unmoving, waiting for my decision.
The more I read, the more I understood his reaction—and the depth of my cultural blunder. Touch among hellhounds was sacred, ritualized, each gesture laden with meaning beyond mere physical contact. I’d stumbled into one of their most significant rituals without any understanding of its importance.
Now I needed to make it right.
I set the tablet aside and approached him, my heart hammering against my ribs. According to what I’d read, there was a formal posture used when hellhounds wished to apologize and establish mutual respect. It involved offering one’s palm in a specific configuration—fingers splayed, wrist exposed, arm extended at precisely the right angle.
I practiced the movement once, twice, trying to commit it to muscle memory. Solantus watched me with those intense amber eyes, still kneeling, still waiting. No pressure came through our bond, only patient anticipation.
Taking a deep breath, I assumed the position described in the guidelines. I extended my right arm, palm up, fingers splayed wide, wrist exposed. My left hand I placed over my heart, a gesture signifying sincerity.
“I apologize for my ignorance,” I said formally, hoping I was following the protocol correctly. “I meant no disrespect to your customs or traditions. I offer this gesture in the spirit of understanding and mutual respect.”
For a long moment, nothing happened. Doubt crept in—had I performed the ritual incorrectly? Was my apology insufficient? Then, slowly, Solantus rose from his kneeling position. He towered over me, his heat radiating outward like a living furnace.
He took my extended hand in his much larger one, his touch surprisingly gentle for a being with such obvious strength. Then he did something unexpected—he raised my palm to his mouth and licked it, a long, deliberate stroke of his tongue from wrist to fingertips.
The sensation sent a shiver racing up my arm and down my spine. His tongue was hot, slightly rough, and the gesture far more intimate than I’d anticipated. Through our bond came a wave of approval, acceptance, and something deeper—desire.
“You are learning,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through my bones. The words spoken aloud—his first since our consummation—felt like a gift.
“I want to,” I replied, breathless from the lingering sensation of his tongue on my palm. “I want to understand you, your culture. I want this to work between us.”
His amber eyes studied me, as if seeing me truly for the first time. “Many humans do not try. They expect us to adopt their ways entirely.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” I said. “This bond is between both of us. We should both make an effort.”
A sound emerged from his chest—not quite a growl, not quite a purr. Approval. His free hand came up to cup my cheek, the heat of his skin warming me instantly. “You are wise, Tamsin.”
Hearing my name on his lips sent another shiver through me. I leaned into his touch, surprised by how natural it felt despite the alienness of his form. “I don’t feel wise. I feel like I’m stumbling through this blind.”
“Yet you seek light,” he said, his thumb brushing across my lower lip. “That is wisdom.”
I don’t know which of us moved first. One moment we were standing in formal posture, the next his mouth was on mine—tentative at first, then with growing hunger. His lips were hotter than a human’s, the sensation both strange and exhilarating. I reached up, my fingers finding purchase in the thick fur at the nape of his neck.
The kiss deepened, his tongue—that same tongue that had just performed a ritual gesture—now exploring my mouth with deliberate intent. The heat of it should have been uncomfortable, but instead it sent liquid desire pooling between my thighs. Through our bond, I felt his restraint crumbling, his need rising to match my own.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, his eyes had changed—the amber now shot through with threads of glowing red, like embers in a banked fire.
“Tamsin,” he growled, my name a question and a plea all at once.
“Yes,” I answered, understanding perfectly what he was asking.
In one fluid motion, he scooped me into his arms, lifting me as if I weighed nothing at all. The strength in him was both frightening and thrilling. He carried me to the bed, placing me on the edge with surprising gentleness.
Then he knelt between my legs, looking up at me with those burning eyes. “May I taste you?”
The formality of the question, combined with the raw desire behind it, made me tremble. “Yes,” I whispered, suddenly shy despite our previous intimacy.
His clawed hands moved to my clothing—the red and orange garments he’d provided—removing them with careful precision. Each newly exposed inch of skin received attention from his hands, his heated breath, the occasional brush of his lips. By the time I was fully naked, I was trembling with anticipation.
He spread my thighs wider, his breathing ragged as he inhaled my scent. Through our bond, I felt his hunger—primal, intense, yet still controlled. He wanted to devour me, but he would do so with exquisite care.
The first touch of his tongue against my core nearly lifted me off the bed. It was hot—so hot—and textured in a way no human tongue could be. He lapped at me slowly, deliberately, learning what made me gasp and moan. Each stroke sent wavesof pleasure cascading through me, intensified by the heat he generated.
