Page 178 of Tracked and Taken

The jacket and the field kit hit the floor between one kiss and the next. None of the care he spent folding mine.

He is inside me before the kiss finishes.

The head of him breaches me, and I moan into his mouth. Thick. Hot. The first ridge catches and pops through, and my back arches. Second. Third. He watches my face as if it is the only data that has ever mattered, and he feeds me the rest of him until he is seated, hips flush, so deep I feel him behind my navel.

“Look at you,” he says, ruined. “Taking me. Open. Mine.”

“Yours. Move. Please move.”

He moves.

Deep. Not fast. Each stroke drags those ridges over the place inside me that whites my vision. His hand pins my hip so I cannot chase; I can only take. The tail wraps my thigh, tight, and the tip finds my clit again and resumes that small, filthy circle in time with his thrusts.

“Stay there, sweetheart.”

I stay.

“That is the right answer.”

His mouth on my mouth. His eyes on mine when his mouth is not. His thumb on the mark, pressing, just to feel me shudder around him.

I shudder.

“There it is.”

“Tael—“

“My good girl.”

I come again on my.

The bonded climax hits both of us. I feel him finish from the inside: heat pumping, his pleasure detonating behind my teeth, the whole male delivered with his eyes open. I clench around the ridges and milk him, and he swears against my throat in a language I do not have.

He does not pull out.

He stays. Weight on me. Tail loosening from my thigh to my ankle, I have you wrap. Purr dropping to the deep after-register. Mouth at the mark.

“Mm,” he says, against it.

I make a sound.

“You are, sweetheart, very good at being quiet.”

I make another sound.

He laughs, low, against the mark.

“I am taking that as a compliment.”

I make a third sound that is an agreement.

He kisses the mark.

He stays.

The comm chimes at 2253.

Not the quiet chime. The override.