Chapter 8 Lexa
LEXA
His tail tightened on my leg. The pressure sent heat racing up my thigh, pooling between my legs.
I'd made my choice. Fuck the consequences.
One second there was space between us. The next his mouth crashed into mine, all teeth and desperation and weeks of wanting compressed into a single point of contact.
I opened for him immediately. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Just heat and need and the taste of him flooding my senses. His tongue swept into my mouth, longer than human, the texture alien and perfect.
His hands found my waist, pulled me against him. The movement jarred my injuries, and pain flared bright and sharp. I didn't care. I bit his lower lip, felt him shudder.
This was nothing like the dreams. This was real. Solid. His body against mine, his scent in my lungs, the undeniable proof that I wasn't imagining this.
My hands fisted in the straps of his armor, yanking him closer. Not close enough. Too many layers between us, too much fabric and leather and distance.
His tail unwound from my leg, only to coil around my waist. The thick appendage settled low on my hips, the tip pressing just above where I needed it most.
I rolled my hips against that pressure. Finally. The movement sent pleasure sparking up my spine, made my core clench with want.
He pulled back, breathing hard. "We need to stop."
"No."
"Your wounds …"
"Are fine." I grabbed the buckles on his chest piece, started working them loose.
His hands covered mine. Stilling them. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"I'm asking you to fuck me." The words came out blunt, crude. "Is that clear enough?"
Something shifted in his expression. The last threads of his control fraying, snapping. His claws flexed against my hands, careful not to break skin.
"Yes," he said.
Then he was moving. His leathers came off in pieces, buckles and straps released with clever fingers. I watched, transfixed, as more of him was revealed. Gray scales covered his chest, his shoulders, tapering down his arms. White markings traced patterns I wanted to follow with my tongue.
I reached for the hem of my tattered shirt, hissed when the movement pulled at my bandages.
His hands were there immediately. "Let me."
He worked carefully, easing the fabric up and over my head. His claws caught on the material but never on my skin. The shirt joined his leathers on the cave floor.
I sat before him in just my bandages and pants, half-naked and not caring. His gaze traveled over me, cataloging every visible inch. The intensity of it made my skin heat, made my nipples tighten beneath the wrappings.
"Magnificent," he said.
Before I could respond, his mouth found my collarbone. Lips and tongue and the careful scrape of fangs. I arched into the contact, my hands finding his shoulders for balance. The scales there were smaller, more flexible. I traced the patterns, felt the muscle beneath shift as he moved.
His hands mapped my sides, avoiding the bandages. Learning the shape of me through touch. Every place he touched felt too sensitive, nerve endings firing in rapid succession.
I found the piercings in his ears, tugged. He growled against my skin, the vibration traveling straight to my core. I did it again, harder, and his teeth closed on my shoulder. Not biting. Just pressure, a promise.
My hands kept exploring. Down his spine, counting vertebrae. The place where his wings attached to his back, all muscle and tendon and heat. He shuddered when I touched there, his tail tightening around my waist.
Sensitive spot. Noted.
I traced the base of one wing, felt the membrane flutter. His breath came faster, harsher. I did it again, fascinated by the response.
"Kyvara." A warning. A plea.
"What?" I found another sensitive spot, the junction where wing met shoulder blade. "Does this bother you?"
"Yes."
"Good."
His mouth found mine again. Harder this time, more demanding. I gave as good as I got, our tongues battling for dominance neither of us would surrender. His hands slid lower, found the waistband of my pants.
I lifted my hips in answer.
He worked the fastenings loose, eased the fabric down my legs. The movement was careful, mindful of my injuries. I wanted to tell him to hurry, to stop being so cautious, but the words died when his hand slid between my thighs.
One careful touch, and I was gasping. He found me wet, ready, proof of how much I wanted this. His fingers explored, learning what made me gasp and roll my hips.
"So soft," he said against my mouth. "So warm."
I couldn't form words. Could only feel. The pad of his finger was so careful with his claw at the end held back, the flesh circling, pressing, finding the rhythm that made my thighs shake. Pleasure built in waves, each one higher than the last.
Then he pulled away.
I made a sound of protest, reached for him. He caught my hands, brought them to the fastenings of his pants.
My hands shook as I worked the buckles loose. The anticipation was killing me, curiosity and need tangled together until I couldn't separate them. I'd wondered about this. About what Drakarn anatomy looked like, how it would feel, if the reality matched the dreams.
The fabric parted. His cock sprang free.
Holy shit.
Scales covered the base, dark and gray in patterns that matched the rest of him. But farther up, the scales gave way to flesh. Dark veins ran the length of him, thick enough to feel. And at the tip, something that looked almost like a small tongue, a fleshy appendage that moved independently.
I stared. I couldn't help it.
"Second thoughts?" His voice was tight, strained.
"Not a fucking chance." I reached out, wrapped my hand around him. Hot. Slick. The texture was different from human, ridged and smooth in alternating patterns.
He hissed when I stroked, the sound sharp in the enclosed space. The tip of his cock moved, that fleshy appendage curling toward my touch.
Fascinating.
I stroked again, learning the shape of him. The scales at the base were smooth, gave way to flesh that was softer. The veins pulsed under my palm. Wetness leaked from the tip, coating my hand.
His tail unwound from my waist, only to slide between my legs. The tip found my entrance, pressed carefully. Testing.
I rolled my hips, taking it deeper. The stretch was different from fingers, thicker, the texture of scales foreign and perfect. My head fell back, a moan escaping.
He worked his tail slowly, in and out, building a rhythm that had me panting. His hand found my breast, thumb circling my nipple through the bandages. The dual sensation was almost too much.
"I need you," I said. The words came out broken, desperate. "Now."
He withdrew his tail. I whimpered at the loss, empty and aching.
Then he was moving me, positioning me. On my back would hurt too much, put pressure on the wounds. He sat, his back against the cave wall, and lifted me onto his lap.
I straddled him, my knees on either side of his hips. The position put me in control, let me set the pace. Good.
His hands steadied me, one on my hip, the other on my thigh. His cock pressed against my entrance, hard and hot and right there.
I sank down.
The stretch was immediate, overwhelming. My body protested the intrusion, muscles clenching around something too big, too different. I stopped, breathing hard, giving myself time to adjust.
"Slow," he said. His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "Take your time."
I lowered another inch. The burn intensified, pleasure and pain blurring together. The ridges of his cock dragged against my inner walls, hitting places that made stars burst behind my eyelids.
Halfway. I could feel him inside me, filling me, the pressure bordering on too much. My thighs trembled with the effort of holding still.
His tail wrapped around my waist again, supporting some of my weight. The gesture was gentle, caring, at odds with the primal need I could see in his eyes.
I took the rest of him in one movement.
We both made sounds. His was a growl that shook his chest. Mine was closer to a scream, pleasure spiking so sharp it almost hurt.
I was so full. The sensation was unlike anything I'd experienced. Every nerve ending inside me was firing, my body stretched around him, accommodating the invasion through sheer determination.
I didn't move. Couldn't. Just sat there, impaled on his cock, trying to remember how to breathe.
His hands flexed on my hips.
"Give me a second."
"Take all the time you need." But his tail tightened, a small betrayal of how much control this was costing him.
The fleshy tip of his cock moved inside me. I felt it curl, press against my inner walls, explore. The sensation sent electricity racing up my spine.
"What the fuck is that?" I gasped.
"Sensitive." The word came out strangled. "Helps with … connection."
Connection. Right. The thing moved again, found a spot that made me see white. I clenched around him involuntarily.
He groaned, his head falling back against the cave wall. "You're going to kill me."
"Good."
I started to move. Slow at first, just a slight roll of my hips. Testing what hurt, what felt good, what made his claws dig into my skin. The pain in my ribs flared with each movement, but I ignored it.
Endorphins and adrenaline and sheer stubbornness were a hell of a drug.
The rhythm built gradually. Up and down, taking him deep then almost releasing. His cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside me, the ridges and textures creating friction that had me gasping. That fleshy tip kept moving, seeking, finding places that made my vision blur.
His hands guided my hips, helping me find the angle that worked best. When I leaned forward slightly, he hit something inside me that made my toes curl.
There. Right there.
I increased the pace, chasing that sensation. My hands braced on his shoulders, using him for leverage. Sweat slicked my skin despite the cooling night air. Every breath came hard, ragged.
His mouth found my throat. Lips and tongue and the careful press of fangs. He didn't bite, just held the threat there, a reminder of what he was. What I was letting claim me.
The thought sent heat flooding through me. Claimed. Marked. His.
No. Not his.
This was just sex. Just scratching an itch that had been building for weeks. Nothing more.
His tail shifted, the tip sliding between us. It found my clit with unerring accuracy, circled once, and I nearly came apart.
"Fuck," I gasped.
He did it again. Pressure and friction and the skilled movement of something designed for this. My inner muscles started to flutter, irregular spasms that signaled how close I was.
Not yet. I wasn't ready for this to end.
I changed the angle, took him deeper. The movement jarred my injuries, and pain lanced through me, bright and sharp. I hissed, faltered.
His hands steadied me immediately. "This is hurting you."
"No."
"You’ll open your wounds."
"I don't care." I rolled my hips, taking him to the hilt. The pleasure drowned out the pain, made it irrelevant. "Don't you dare stop."
Something shifted in his expression. The careful control cracked, splintered. His hands tightened on my hips, claws pricking my skin. Not breaking it, just the promise of what those claws could do.
He thrust up.
The movement drove him impossibly deeper. I cried out, the sound echoing off cave walls. He did it again, meeting my downward motion with his upward thrust. The rhythm turned brutal, desperate, all pretense of gentleness abandoned.
His wings spread, mantling around us. Creating a private world where only we existed. His scent surrounded me, smoke and stone and male arousal. It filled my lungs with each gasping breath, made my head spin.
"Kyvara," he growled against my throat. "Mine."
The word should bother me. Should make me pull away, establish boundaries, remind him this was just physical.
Instead, it sent pleasure spiking through me. Sharp and undeniable.
His tail worked my clit with relentless precision. Circling, pressing, the pressure building with each stroke. Inside, his cock hit that perfect spot with every thrust, the fleshy tip curling to increase the sensation.
Too much. It was too much.
The orgasm built at the base of my spine, coiling tighter with each movement. My inner walls started to clench rhythmically, gripping him, trying to pull him deeper even though there was nowhere left to go.
His fangs scraped my throat. Not biting, just pressure. A claim without breaking skin.
I shattered.
The orgasm hit like a bomb, pleasure exploding outward from my core in waves that made my vision white out. My body convulsed around him, muscles clamping down hard enough that he groaned. Every nerve ending fired at once, sensation overload that bordered on painful.
I felt him follow. His cock pulsed inside me, heat flooding my core as he came. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me in place while he emptied himself. The growl that tore from his chest was primal, possessive, absolutely inhuman.
We stayed locked together, both shaking, both struggling to breathe. His tail remained wrapped around my waist, his wings still mantled, his fangs still pressed to my throat.
Slowly, reality filtered back in. The cave. The scattered supplies. The ache in my ribs that had been drowned by endorphins and was now making itself known again.
I should move. Should climb off him, put distance between us, reestablish some kind of boundary.
I didn't move.
His cock was still inside me, softening but not withdrawn. The fleshy tip gave one last flutter, then went still. Aftershocks rippled through my core, small spasms that made me gasp.
His hands gentled on my hips. Stroking now rather than gripping. Soothing.
I lifted my head, met his eyes. Silver and satisfied and entirely too knowing.
One time wasn't going to be enough.
The realization settled over me. I'd thought this would scratch the itch, get him out of my system, satisfy the curiosity that had been eating me alive.
It had made everything worse.
I wanted more. Wanted to learn every sound he made, every place that made him shudder, every way his alien body could give me pleasure. Wanted to map him with my hands and mouth until I knew him better than I knew myself.
Fuck.
I was in so much trouble.
I shifted, started to lift off him. His hands tightened fractionally, a small protest, before releasing me.
The loss of him left me empty. Hollow. I hated how much I noticed it.
I moved to the side, careful of my wounds. Wetness leaked down my thighs, evidence of what we'd done. I should clean up, rebandage, do something practical.
I just sat there, processing.
His hand found mine. Laced our fingers together. The gesture was intimate in a way the sex hadn't been. Tender.
I should pull away.
I squeezed his hand instead.