Chapter 23 Maeve
MAEVE
Maeve tasted him and hated how right it felt.
Not because the kiss was good, she’d known that the first time he walked back into her tavern and messed up her equilibrium, but because he kissed her like ten frozen years hadn’t passed. Like he’d been chasing this same mouth in memory and now finally, finally had it again.
Outside, the storm howled and shoved against the windows. Up here it was only firelight and shadows and the sound of her own breath getting away from her.
She didn’t want that to be true. Didn’t want him to be the place she softened. But his hand slid up her spine, broad and hot, and her lioness simply… stopped fighting. All that pacing, all that ready rage, went liquid.
She broke the kiss first. Only because she needed air.
“This is a mistake,” she said, still in his lap, still holding his shirt in both hands.
“I know you’ll think so,” he said, voice rough, mouth kiss-swollen. “You making it anyway?”
She looked at him then. Golden hair mussed, amber eyes dark with heat, jaw shadowed, that stupid cocky mouth finally honest. He wasn’t trying to bowl her over. He was offering. Big, dangerous, too-much lion, sitting in her living room in front of her fire, offering.
It hit her then why she kept losing ground with him.
Because he wasn’t trying to own her.
He was trying to stand with her.
Her throat tightened. “Yeah,” she said. “I am.”
His exhale was pure relief.
She kissed him again, slower this time, letting herself taste.
Letting herself enjoy. His lips were warm, patient, but he met her every time she tilted or nipped, like he already knew her rhythm.
His hands slid under her sweater, over her ribs, thumbs stroking the sides of her breasts through the thin bra, and her body answered with a heated rush that had very little to do with the fire.
She tugged her sweater off and tossed it toward the armchair. “If we’re doing this,” she said, breathless, “I’m not doing it half-dressed.”
He grinned, heat and hunger all over his face. “Yes, ma’am.”
He helped her with the bra clasp, big fingers surprisingly deft. The straps slid down her shoulders. Cool air hit her skin, followed immediately by his hands. Warm, reverent, claiming nothing. Just touching.
“Gods, Maeve,” he murmured, eyes dropping over her. “You always were trouble.”
“Still am.” She arched into his palms. “Keep up.”
He did. He bent and closed his mouth around one peaked nipple, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.
Pleasure arrowed low. She fisted his hair, holding him there, feeling the steady pull, the way he groaned when she rolled her hips in his lap.
She could feel him, hard and hot under her, trapped by his jeans.
Her lioness purred, pleased to have that effect.
“Shirt,” she said, tugging.
He stripped it off in one smooth motion. Broad chest. Powerful arms. Tanned skin mapped with scars from fights he hadn’t told her about. Everything in her that loved strength, not for dominance, but for protection, sat up and took notice.
She kissed him again, harder, pushing him back into the couch cushions so she could get his belt. He lifted his hips so she could strip him. She slid his jeans and boxers down together, freeing him.
He was always so proportionate, but even now he seemed much larger than before. Her pussy ached with heat at the memory.
She wrapped her fingers around him, slow, testing his weight, her thumb skimming the damp head. His breath hitched. His hips twitched.
He started leaking over her hand with a slow steady drip. She lapped it up, unable to stop herself with the way he moaned while she worked.
Then, he caught her wrist, brought her hand to his mouth, kissed her knuckles. “My turn.”
He shifted, fast for his size, and suddenly she was the one on her back on the couch, firelight painting the ceiling, hair spilled over the cushion. He slid down her body, tugging at her leggings.
He peeled her leggings off, then her panties, slow enough to look, to memorize. His pupils blew wide, lion close. She felt entirely seen. Entirely wanted.
“You’re perfect,” he said. “Every damn inch.”
She rolled her eyes, heat blooming in her cheeks anyway. “Stop talking like that.”
“Why?” His hands gripped her thighs, thumbs stroking the insides. “Truth make you nervous?”
“It makes things real.”
“It is real.”
Then he lowered his head.
He licked her slow at first, like he was tasting something rare.
Then he found her rhythm, the one that made her hips jerk and her hand fly to his hair.
He groaned into her when she tugged, like he liked being held there.
His tongue worked her, deliberate, clever, circling where she needed it most, then sucking, then flattening, switching it up so she never quite knew when the next wave would hit.
“Don’t stop.” Her voice emerged rough, almost a growl.
“Not planning on it,” he said against her, and did exactly what she asked.
Pleasure built, hot and fast. The storm outside battered the walls, but up here everything had narrowed to fire, his mouth, her heartbeat. Her lioness rose to meet it, to rub against him, to claim and be claimed. She pressed her heel to his shoulder to get more, to angle him, to take what was hers.
When she came, it was sharp and hard and too much. She slapped a hand over her own mouth to muffle the sound. He felt it, felt the trembling, and rode her through it, tongue easing, hands holding.
“Yeah,” he murmured, sliding up her body, bracing over her so his weight didn’t crush her. His face was flushed, hair a mess, mouth wet with her. “That’s mine.”
She huffed a laugh, dazed. “You wish.”
“I do.” He kissed her, letting her taste herself. “I really do.”
Their bodies were flush now, skin to skin, heat to heat. She hooked her leg over his hip and dragged him closer.
“Condom?” she said, because no matter how far gone she was, she wasn’t stupid.
“Back pocket,” he said, already reaching. He tore it, rolled it on, eyes never leaving hers. “Say it, Maeve.”
She swallowed. This was the moment. Choice or fear.
She had already slept with him once and told herself it was a distraction, a way to burn off anger.
This time wasn’t that. This time she’d heard him talk about choosing her over duty.
This time she’d seen his regret. This time he was trapped in a blizzard with her because he stayed.
This time, she knew, on a level deeper than logic, that he would have walked through worse to get to her.
She didn’t have to make it a bond.
She could just make it tonight.
“Yeah,” she said, hand cupping his jaw. “I want this.”
His eyes flared. “Good.”
He pushed into her in one strong, steady stroke.
Her mouth fell open. He filled her, stretching her, heat and pressure and him. Her lioness rolled, pleased. He went slow, watching her face, giving her body time to take him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him down, needing his weight.
“Maeve,” he rasped. “You feel… gods.”
“You too,” she said, because honesty was the theme tonight, apparently. “You always did.”
He laughed, breathless, and started to move.
He found a rhythm that was deep and sure, hips rolling, hitting the place inside that made her eyes go hot. She met him, no passivity, no surrender that wasn’t her idea. Every time he drove in, she pushed up. Every time he set the pace, she stole it and made it hers. Equal power. Equal hunger.
“Look at me,” he said.
She did. Firelight flickered over his face, turning his amber eyes almost molten. He looked at her like every word he’d said downstairs was true. Like she was the choice. Like he’d waited ten winters just to be here.
“Don’t fall in love with me,” she said, trying to make it light.
“Too late,” he said, not light at all.
That undid her more than anything else.
She clutched him, fingers digging into his back, legs tightening at his sides.
He drove harder, gasping her name, and she let the pleasure take her again, riding it, riding him, storm and fire and lion all singing in her blood.
He followed with a low, rough sound, shuddering over her, forehead pressed to hers.
For a while, they just lay there, catching their breath. The storm outside dulled, wind still fierce but muffled by the snow packed against the windows. The fire sank lower, throwing lazy orange across the room.
Dante shifted to the side so he wasn’t on her, but he didn’t let go. One arm stayed heavy across her middle. His scent wrapped around her, warm and male and familiar. His heartbeat was a slow, steady drum against her shoulder.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yeah.” She stared at the ceiling. “Unfortunately.”
He huffed a laugh. “Unfortunately?”
“Means I can’t blame this on adrenaline.”
“You could blame it on the storm.”
“Storm didn’t make me climb in your lap.”
“True.” He kissed her shoulder, slow.
She rolled toward him, let him pull her in. His body was a furnace. The couch was narrow, but he tucked her under his chin like he’d done it a thousand times. Snow muted the world. The fire crackled soft. Her lioness purred, finally, finally satisfied.
And that was the problem.
Because lying there, skin still buzzing, his arm heavy around her waist, it felt good. Too good. It felt like belonging. Like she’d slipped into the place she’d been avoiding for a decade.
Guilt crept in first, a thin, cold line. Hector’s smirk. Council papers on her table. Her tavern on the line. And here she was letting the man who left her wrap around her like they were mated.
Fear followed, thicker. What if he left again. What if she’d just made herself soft right when she needed to be sharp. What if choosing him once made it harder not to choose him again.
Dante’s breathing evened, warm against her hair.
Maeve stared into the dying fire, heart too full and too vulnerable, and told herself this was still her choice.
She just wished it didn’t feel so much like falling.