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He growls against my collarbone and tugs the collar wider until my breast is bare to the night air. His hand closes over it, big and rough, with the claws spread wide so only his palm touches me. When he bends and takes my nipple into his mouth, fangs and all, I push up into it until the needles grind under my shoulder blades.
He sucks hard enough that I feel the pull between my legs. I’ve been wet since I felt him, which I plan to be angry about later.
I take his wrist and move his hand down to the hem.
“I’ve got claws.”
“I’ve met them. Turn your hand over.”
He turns it over. The backs of his knuckles slide up the inside of my thigh, warm and careful, and they stop just short of my heat.
I tilt my hips. “Higher than that.”
“Wait.”
I push his hand where I want it. “You wait. I’m busy.”
His knuckle slides through me, and I’m slick enough that it glides. The sound he makes is mostly breath. He rubs slowly up to my clit and back, learning what makes me grab his hair, and then he goes on being careful until I could bite him.
“Harder. I’m not the bandage.”
“You’ve got a hole in your shoulder.”
“My shoulder’s nowhere near your hand.” I rock against his knuckle to make the point. “Inside. I want your fingers in me.”
He lifts his hand between us, and the moon catches the claws, black and curved at the end of every finger. “No.”
“Then think of something.”
He looks at the claws, then at me. Then he puts his middle finger between his teeth and bites down.
The crack is loud enough to make me jump. He spits the claw into the needles, sets his teeth to the next finger, and does it again. He runs both blunt ends across his lower lip, finds an edge he doesn’t like, and bites that off too.
I’m staring, and I don’t care that he can see it.
“Those were perfectly good claws.”
“I’ve got more.”
“Do they grow back?”
“Slowly.” He brings the hand down between my thighs. “Be quiet.”
“You’ve met me.”
He pushes both fingers into me, and I stop talking after all. They’re thick, thicker than I planned for, and he goes slowly enough that I feel every knuckle. The claws he’s kept fan out on either side, held wide of my skin, and his thumb stays folded into his palm. When he’s in as deep as his hand allows, he stops and watches my face.
“Is this right?”
“You’re asking now?”
“Who would I have asked?”
I don’t have an answer for that. He lives alone inside a mountain, and I should’ve worked it out before his fingers were in me.
“Then listen. Curl them toward you.” He does, and the rest of my instructions come out as a noise.
He takes direction better than he takes insults, which is lucky. Nobody who answers to Keer was ever going to lay a finger on his sister, so my own hand is all the experience I’ve got. He doesn’t need to know that.
