Moth to Her Flame (Mated to the Monster: Season 3)

19. Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

C helsea

It’s after seven when my stomach finally reminds me that no matter how delicious, breakfast was hours ago. Surrounded by half-packed boxes and piles of files, the simple act of making dinner feels surreally normal.

“Need help?” Riven appears in the arched kitchen doorway. Though he’s lounging against one side of it, his presence somehow fills the space.

“I’ve got it.” Pulling canned chicken from the pantry provides an excuse not to stare at how the dusky light plays across his wings, highlighting the brown and golden moth-like “eyes” that have begun to fascinate me. “But you could keep me company.”

The chicken salad comes together quickly—a dash of mayo, some chopped celery, and a few raisins (after asking him if my odd addition met with his approval). Simple comfort food for a decidedly uncomfortable day. A bowl of perfectly ripe peaches on the counter catches my eye, their sweet scent shouting the best things about autumn.

“These are perfectly ripe. I got them the other day from a roadside stand. They’re straight from Palisades.” People come from other states for Palisades peaches. When they’re ripe? There’s nothing better.

When we settle at the table, Riven reaches for a peach before touching his sandwich. “These are my favorite,” he admits, turning the fruit in his hands. “The scent alone…”

His antennae quiver slightly as he brings it to his face, inhaling deeply. The gesture is oddly sensual, making something warm unfurl in my stomach.

Then he takes his first bite, and my world tilts sideways.

I’ve never seen his proboscis before. It emerges from behind sharp teeth—not a typical tongue, but something more elegant, more foreign. Delicate. Precise. It caresses the peach’s fuzzy skin before dipping into the open flesh where he took his first bite. I watch, mesmerized, as he draws in the juice, as though through a straw, with obvious relish.

Heat floods my face as I watch, transfixed. His eyes close in pleasure as that appendage explores the fruit’s bounty, seeking the sweetest spots with devastating accuracy. Juice trails down his chin, and his proboscis darts out to catch it in a motion that makes my thighs clench.

A small sound of appreciation rumbles from his chest. The noise shoots straight through me, igniting places I didn’t know could burn from just watching someone eat.

His next bite is slower, more deliberate. That alien tongue maps the peach’s contours with intense focus, drawing out the moment until I’m practically squirming in my chair. When juice drips onto his fingers, he cleans them with the same meticulous attention, and my imagination explodes with thoughts of what else that talented appendage might do.

My breathing turns shallow as he works his way around the fruit. Each lap of his proboscis, each tiny sound of pleasure—both from the graceful sucks of his tendril-like tongue as well as the guttural moans of his enjoyment—builds a tension that has nothing to do with hunger—at least not for food.

When did the kitchen get so warm? I control my urge to fan myself, not wanting to draw his attention from that peach. I’m enjoying the show too much.

His wings shimmer with subtle light, creating patterns that dance across the table between us. They mirror my racing pulse, or perhaps my pulse mirrors them. Everything narrows to the sight of that incredible tongue exploring sweet flesh, the sound of his quiet enjoyment, the way his throat works as he swallows.

The peach’s scent mingles with his unique fragrance—something wild and electric, like ozone before a storm. The combination is intoxicating, making my head spin with desire.

His next bite is positively indecent—sensual, and devastatingly thorough. My fork clatters against my plate as I drop it, and his eyes flare wide at the sound.

The moment our gazes lock, everything changes.

His pupils dilate as understanding dawns. His proboscis retreats, but not before one last, deliberate caress of the fruit that makes me bite back a whimper.

“Something wrong with my nectar probe?” His voice drops lower, rougher. Deliberate.

Nectar probe? Seriously? Is he messing with me? That’s just too… erotic.

“No.” My word comes out breathless. “Just… watching you enjoy that…”

“ Peach .”

Holy hell. How did he infuse that single syllable with so much erotic innuendo?

“I do enjoy it.” Another slow, purposeful bite. “Very much.”

Heat floods my core as his probe emerges again, this time with clear intent to affect me. Each movement becomes a promise, a preview, a suggestion that short circuits my higher brain functions.

His wings flare brighter, betraying his own arousal. The dusky light illuminates the droplets of juice on his lips, making them gleam. My own lips part involuntarily, imagining how that talented tongue would feel…

“Chelsea.” My name has become a growl that vibrates through my bones.

“Yes?”

“You’re not eating.”

Right. Dinner. Food. Normal things that don’t involve fantasizing about my cryptid protector’s absolutely devastating nectar probe .

“Not hungry.” Not for chicken salad, anyway.

His knowing smile makes my stomach flip. “You should eat.” Another deliberate bite. “Keep up your strength.”

The way he says it—like he knows exactly what I might need my strength for—sends fresh heat coursing through me.

My attempt at eating is mechanical, tasteless. All my awareness centers on his continued enjoyment of that damned peach.

When he finally finishes, licking the last drops of juice from his fingers with excruciating thoroughness, I’m practically vibrating with frustrated desire.

“That was…” Words fail as heat floods my cheeks.

“Sweet.” His citrine eyes darken to molten gold, scorching me with naked hunger. "Though I suspect there are… sweeter treasures to taste."

The loaded silence stretches between us, heavy with possibility and promise. His wings flash with golden light that matches the throbbing between my thighs.

My phone lies on the counter, and before I can overthink it, I reach for it. The camera click makes his antennae twitch in surprise.

“Sorry,” I mumble, suddenly self-conscious. “You just looked… your wings were so bright, and I wanted to…”

His proboscis emerges to taste the lingering peach juice on his lips as he examines my screen. In the photo, his wings cast patterns of golden light across the kitchen, his expression caught in a moment of pure enjoyment. “I like seeing myself through your eyes.”

Taking another quick shot catches him mid-smile, wings flaring brighter. The photos show none of the alienness that first repelled me—just beauty and a soft warmth I wouldn’t have thought possible when we first met.

“You realize, don’t you, that you hold my destruction in your hand? Me and all my friends, Chelsea.”

That statement hit me with the force of a tornado. Then I realize something else.

“With Apex searching for you, this could mean my destruction, too, Riven. I just wanted to capture the moment, like a dragonfly in amber. Here, I’ll—”

He stops me by placing his hand over mine.

“Keep it, Chelsea. I said that not because I wanted you to destroy the picture, but because I wanted you to know how much I trust you.”

My stomach clenches and my throat tightens at the impact of his words.

“That means a lot, Riven.”

I’m brought back to the present when I realize it’s either time to kiss, or to change the subject.

“We should…” What? Pack? Run? Drag each other closer and run to the bed?

“We should finish packing.” His voice stays steady, but his wings betray how affected he is—their glow almost blinding now. “We need to leave soon.”

Right. Packing. Moving to his mountain. Where we’ll be in close quarters, surrounded by his family, dealing with deadly threats.

None of which explains why I can’t stop staring at his mouth.

“Chelsea?”

“Hmm?”

“You lost in thought?”

Yes. I’m imagining that probe doing wicked, wicked things to every inch of my skin. Wondering how it would feel against my—

“Right!” Standing too quickly makes my chair scrape against the floor. “Packing. Very important.”

His knowing chuckle follows me from the kitchen, along with the lingering scent of peaches and an impending autumn storm.

Later, I tell myself. We’ll deal with this… awareness… attraction… later.

But as I return to sorting files, all I can think about is that talented, facile tongue seeking inside me and finding all of my… sweet spots.

Some revelations change everything.

Some hunger can’t be satisfied with fruit.

And some cryptid appendages deserve their own damn fan club.