Page 140 of Tracked and Taken

“I am aware, Vosk.”

“It was barely built for me.”

“That is the second-most observable feature of the cubicle.”

“And the first?”

“That you are smirking at the back of my head.”

“I am not smirking at the back of your head, Natalie.”

“I can feel it through your chest. I can also feel the rest of it through my spine, so we can stop pretending this is a conversation about engineering tolerances.”

His hands go to my hair. Slow. The way a male handles something he intends to be careful with. He gathers it up, twists it, holds it out of the spray with one fist so I will not have to do it twice. The other hand spans my stomach. The water runs hot. The mark at my throat warms at the extra register; the bond runs when his hands are on my body, and his hands are on my body in an arrangement his hands have wanted for the length of the days I have known him.

His mouth at the back of my neck.

Open. Wet. He sucks at the hinge of my shoulder like he is still hungry from last night.

His tail at the inside of my thigh.

Higher.

There is nowhere to retreat to in this cubicle, and I am not looking for it.

“Natalie.”

“Yes?”

“We have twenty-nine minutes.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Twenty-eight, sweetheart.”

“How would you like to spend them?”

Turning around in his arms brings me against the front of him: chest, stomach; the heat Draelith biology runs five degrees above mine. His cock slides wet between us, ridged and heavy against my belly, and for one stupid, unprofessional second I want to drop to my knees on the tile and ruin the hair parameter on purpose.

His silver eyes go a fraction darker. The half-grin at the corner of his mouth is doing the thing it does when his pupils have just gone darker. He felt it. Of course he felt it.

“Quickly,” I say.

“Quickly.”

“And only one of us gets to finish.”

The half-grin holds. Something behind it does not.

“Sweetheart.”

“Mm.”

“That is a composition I have not been in before.”

“You will live, Vosk.”

“I am going to, yes.”