Page 77 of Tracked and Taken

“The purr at full. Through skin contact. Another male cannot do that for you. No human mouth is going to make your cunt clench like this.”

“Oh—“

“You have never had a mate built for you before. You are never going to want one who isn’t.”

“Bunk, Tael. Now.”

“Copy, sweetheart.”

I get my arm under her thighs. My tail stays at her knees. The walk to the bunk is four meters, and I do not remember any of them, because my mouth is at her pulse and her hand is in my hair and the rosettes along my forearms are releasing the scent compounds at saturation. I can smell how wet she is. I have been able to smell it since the corridor.

I kick the bunk hatch closed.

I set her on the mattress, flat on her back. Her hair spread. The lace at her hips the only thing left on her body. Her dark eyes on mine with pupils at full dilation.

I go down on my knees at the foot of the bunk.

Remember this.

I take the eight seconds I did not take in the corridor. Her collarbones. The flush under her skin. The architecture of her ribcage. Her hipbones. The lace at her hips and the crease where the lace meets skin. The dark, wet patch already showing through.

“Stop looking, Tael.”

“No.”

“Tael—“

“I have been looking at you since you walked into that briefing room, Natalie. You are not going to win this one. I am going to map every inch of you. I am going to taste every inch of you. You are going to let me.”

Her face goes pink.

“Start, then.”

The smirk is fully deployed.

“Copy, sweetheart.”

I start at her feet.

Her ankle. The tenderness of a human female’s ankle that I have never had cause to map. The arch of her foot. My mouth. The purr through the contact. Her breath catches.

“My feet?”

“All of you. I said every inch. I meant every inch.”

The back of her knee next. The hollow there — the pulse-point no male has ever bothered to find. My mouth at it. The purr through skin contact. She arches off the mattress and makes a sound that is not quite a word.

Her inner thigh. Slow. My canine grazing — the possibility of the pressure without the pressure. Her hand in my hair. Her breath shaking. I can smell her. Salt and heat and want.

My tail comes up.

It wraps her other thigh — the one my shoulder is not between — and lifts and holds. Positioning. The pressure of a third limb that can open her for me at the angle I want while my hands are on her hipbones.

She feels it.

“Tael. Your tail—“

“Is holding you open for me, sweetheart. Yes. So I can look at how wet you are before I put my mouth on you.”