Page 67 of Fang & Fury

Sweat slid down Darach’s back. Holding onto control was nearly impossible now, yet they weren’t done.

Darach hadn’t had enough of her—and they hadn’t pushed things far enough.

She hadn’t answered Isleen’s challenge properly.

In this position, he was dominant. It would be hard for her to attack him, for she couldn’t see his throat. If they were going to do this, it had to be right.

It took everything he had, but he withdrew from Ailsa and moved back. He then drew her with him as he stretched out upon the mossy riverbank and pulled her astride him.

“Ride me,” he growled. His canines had stopped tingling, his fangs retracting now. “Hold nothing back.”

Her full red lips parted. Her pupils were so dilated now that her eyes almost appeared black—aye, as pitch-black as a bavaan’s. The comparison wasn’t lost on him, but he had embarked on this journey now, and he wouldn’t shrink from it.

And so, he took hold of her hips—noting that his claws had drawn in now too—and slowly lowered her down over his straining, jerking shaft. He watched the sharp rise and fall of her sweat-slicked breasts as she seated herself fully upon him. “Oh!” She gave a high, keening cry, throwing her head back. “Darach!”

“Aye,” he rasped. “Fuck me, Ailsa.”

And she did, her breasts bouncing every time she rocked forward.

And as she moved, he witnessed a change ripple over her face.

She was as beautiful as ever, but her features appeared sharper, more angular. Her pointed pink tongue slid out, and she licked her lips as she bore down on him again and again. They’d started slow, but there was a frenzied edge to her motions now.

Heat coiled in his gut, and he lifted his hips to meet hers.

Their gazes locked, her black eyes spearing him, and then her gaze slid down to his throat.

Ailsa rocked hard, bringing him deeper still. She rolled her hips, her inner muscles clenching him. And then a low, hungry growl rumbled from her throat.

21: FACE WHAT YOU FEAR

AILSA DROVE HERSELF down on Darach.

By the Mother. This position took him so deep, and every time she rocked back, and then ground herself against him, she felt the tip of his shaft push at her womb. It ached, and yet pleasure bloomed too, curling and tightening before wet heat rushed through her loins.

She started to tremble then—even as her gaze never left his throat, the hollow underneath his jaw.

Darach’s pulse hammered beneath the skin. She couldn’t stop looking at it.

The beat seemed unnaturally loud.

Alive—and so tempting.

The scent of him surrounded her: sweat, musk, and male heat. And beneath it all, the rich metallic note of blood moving beneath skin.

Saliva flooded her mouth, and before she knew it, a growl tore from her throat.

Darach’s eyes, a deep gold in the silvery lamplight, raked over her face. His gaze was hooded, and his lips parted. Earlier, he’d let the beast out a little, and as he’d gently bitten her, she’d lost control, submitting to the sensation of being claimed by him.

But now, he was vulnerable: on his back, hands gripping her hips as she rode him harder still.

The tension in her lower belly was a gathering storm.

Her hands, braced against the riverbank as she rocked and writhed, flexed, her fingertips tingling, aching to tear flesh.

Her gut started to pulse.

Gods, how she wanted to feed.