Page 177 of Tracked and Taken

“Tael—fuck—“

“Language, Head of Security.”

“Do not—do not call me that while your tail is—“

“While my tail is on your clit. Yes. I know where it is. I put it there.”

He switches breasts. Bites, gentle, then sucks the sting. The tail changes direction. I sob once, ugly, honest.

He goes lower.

Sternum. Belly. The line of hair below my navel. He breathes against my cunt and does not yet put his mouth on it, and I lift my hips like a woman who has forgotten she runs a station.

“That sound is going on the list, sweetheart.”

“There is a list.”

“There has been a list since day one. It is comprehensive. You just added to it.”

Then he uses his mouth.

I make a sound in his hair that is not a word.

He is not polite. He licks me open, slow, then seals his mouth over my clit and sucks, and the bond detonates. I feel my own taste hit his tongue, I feel how much he likes it, I feel the feral thing in him slam forward and stay. His hand under my thigh holds me open. His other hand stays on my sternum so the purr never leaves my ribs. The tail does not withdraw. It stays on my clit beside his tongue, two rhythms, neither of them the same, and I cannot keep up and I am not supposed to.

“Tael—“

“Mm.” The vibration hits my clit. I jerk. “Take it.”

“Please—“

“I said take it, Natalie.”

I take it.

His tongue fucks into me. His tail rubs my clit. The mark at my throat burns warm. I come so hard I stop breathing. No word. A raw sound that goes on and on while the purr peaks in my sternum and his tail holds the rhythm and does not falter.

He works me through it.

He does not stop.

“Tael—I can’t—“

“You can.”

“I just—“

“You can come again. The tail is not stopping. My mouth is not stopping. You are going to give me another one because I want it and because you are wet enough to drown me and because you said yes. Take it.”

I take it.

The second one is meaner. Smaller at the start, then it locks and wrings and I sob his name into the dark while he licks me through it like he is starving. When he lifts his mouth, his chin is shining and the half-grin is wrecked and proud.

“There,” he says. “Better.”

I cannot answer.

He kisses the inside of my thigh. Hip. Belly. Sternum. The mark, canines set, not biting, my pulse jumping again. And then my mouth. I taste myself. I suck his lower lip. He growls into me.