Page 65 of The Crime Lord's Possession
My abdomen pulls tight.
His claws flex at his sides, still tipped with the same sharp points that tore through his father’s throat. The sight of them should scare me. It doesn’t. It only makes me want them on my skin.
He is powerful. Inside and out. A male who has a literal world at his feet.
“Can I touch you, female,” he asks, his voice hoarse.
And this powerful male is asking me for permission. I nod, needing to have him in my arms, my skin on his scales. Hands on me. Cocks in me. Owning each other.
Heat of him radiates against my bare skin. One clawed hand settles at the small of my back, pulling me flush against him, and the feel of all that warm, hard muscle pressed against my stomach and breasts sends a shiver racing up my spine. Both cocks press against my belly, hot and slick, and his tail curls around my calf with a possessive squeeze.
“I want you, Miro. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
I reach up and touch his face, right where the scales soften near his jaw. “Then have me. I’m right here.”
He tilts my chin and kisses me. Slowly. Deliberately. As though he’s memorizing the shape of my mouth. His lips part mine, and his tongue sweeps against mine as he draws us into the shower. He slides a warm palm down my spine and pulls me tighter against him. The water rushes behind us and the steam wraps around our bodies and I lose myself in the taste of him until he finally pulls back, breathless.
The water is gloriously hot. It sluices over my shoulders and down my back, washing away the blood and the fear and the long, brutal hours of this night. I tip my head back and let it soak my hair, and for a long moment I just stand with my eyes closed, feeling the warmth seep into muscles that slowly start to unclench.
When I open my eyes, Zavin is watching me. He towers over me like this, a wall of muscle and scales and warm amber eyes. His expression is unreadable, but his tail curls up my leg, the end grazing the tip of my thighs.
He reaches for the soap. Works the lather between his palms with slow, deliberate movements. Then those clawed hands rise and sink into my hair, and he tilts my head back further with nothing but the gentle pressure of his fingertips against my scalp.
“What are you doing?” I manage.
“Caring for my female.” His voice rumbles above me.
“But I thought we were going to...”
“And we will.” A low chuckle rolls through his chest, deep and warm and so utterly masculine that my nipples tighten to aching points. His gaze drops, and the corner of his mouth curves. “But let me tend to you first.”
He lathers something soft and herb-scented between his palms, and then those claws are in my hair, and I forget how to argue.
He works the soap through the wet strands with a gentleness that shouldn’t be possible from hands that killed a man tonight. His claws graze my scalp with each slow pass, careful not to catch. Light scratches that trace across my skull and down to the nape of my neck, and then the pads of his fingers press in circles, massaging, working through every knot of tension. My head tips back and my eyes flutter shut.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice close to my ear. “Let go for me, little human. Let me worship you the way you deserve.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I just tip my head back further into his hands and let him take me wherever he wants to go.
He rinses my hair slowly, cupping water in his palms and pouring it through the strands, working the suds free with patient fingers until the water runs clear down my back. Then his hands skim down my arms. He laces his fingers through mine, cleaning the dried blood from under my nails, before gliding up my ribs, careful around the bruises, to cup my breasts.
His thumbs circle my nipples until I’m gasping, until the ache builds into something I feel in my belly and between my thighs. “You’re beautiful,” he says against my ear. “Your reactions. Responses. Your scent as you grow aroused.”
His hands slide lower, tracing the curve of my hips before he kneels. I brace myself on his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle flex beneath my palms as he works the soap over my legs with the same reverence he gave my hair.
His hands slow as they find the inside of my thigh. He looks up at me through the steam, water dripping from his horns, and his gaze is a question. “Can I touch you here, Miro?”
I can only nod, unable to form any logical words. He watches my face as he gently parts my folds, finding me wet and aching for him as he knew I would be. The sound I make is low and hungry.
“I love the sounds you make.” He eases his finger along my crease. “So wet for me. So ready.”
He circles my clit with his thumb, as he slips inside me. One finger first, a slow stretch that makes me moan. Then a second, filling me, curling upward to find the spot that makes my vision spark.
I grip his shoulders and let my head fall back and let him do exactly what he promised.
“Such a good female. So responsive,” he whispers against my belly.
Then he sinks to his knees before me. His clawed hands spread my thighs wider, hooking one of my legs over his shoulder to open me to him, and I feel utterly exposed, utterly claimed, utterly safe.
