I lean into him. Give into it.
My hands come up without thought, gripping him, pulling him closer as his mouth finds mine again. Deeper. More certain. The edge no longer held back, just… directed.
Mine.
The word doesn’t come from me, but I feel it anyway.
In the way he holds me. In the way his body presses in, leaving no space between us. No question about what this is now.
Claim.
My breath breaks against his as I answer him, matching the intensity, not trying to slow him, not trying to stop him, because I don’t want to.
His hand moves. Strong and deliberate as it slides along my side, higher, then lower, learning me in a way that’s no longer accidental.
Every movement draws a reaction I don’t try to hide, don’t try to control, because he’s not pushing past me anymore. He’s pulling me with him. And I go. Willing.
My fingers tighten against him, my body shifting instinctively, opening, responding, giving him everything he’s asking for without a single word, because I understand it now. Not just what he wants. What he’s choosing.
The difference makes this something else entirely.
His hand slides lower, over my hip. His thumb hooks inside the waist of my pants. I gasp. He pauses, eyes on mine, but only for an instant. Long enough to check I’m okay before he tugs them down. They slide, slipping over my hip, off my ass.
Musk fills the air. We kiss, rough, almost violent. Claiming.
He slides his hand over my hip, and I push into him.
He presses, pulling up… my lips part in welcome. Wet. Ready. Needing.
He pauses. Holding. Again.
“Yes,” I exhale, working my hips back and forth. Needing more. Needing him.
His eyes burn bright, never closing. I slide my hands up and grab onto his horns, pulling him closer.
“Gah,” I gasp as he penetrates not with one, but three fingers.
They slide in easy. Filling. So full. I pant, thrusting forward. Driving him deeper.
He growls, crushing me against the wall. Covering me.
He moves his fingers like he knows me perfectly. Finding every spot. Pleasure builds, mounting higher.
His tongue penetrates like his fingers. Searching. Finding. Claiming.
“Mine,” he growls, low and harsh.
I can’t form words, so I do the only halfway coherent thing I can. I moan.
Then I’m taken over by an explosion.
I cry out, clinging to him, as wave after wave crashes through. I buck. I sway. I ride his fingers like it’s a monster I have to break.
When the last passes, I’m clinging to him, panting. Unable to catch my breath. Hearing only the sound of blood rushing in my ears.
Then something crashes outside the tunnel.
19
