The Mate Hunt

He pressed a kiss to the crease of my thigh, just beside where I ached most, and my words dissolved into a sound I didn't recognize.

"There." His lips moved against my skin. "That's not hatred."

"I—"

He kissed higher. The juncture of my thigh and hip. The soft plane of my belly. Each press of his mouth was deliberate, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world and intended to spend every second of it learning my body.

"I should be trying to kill you," I managed.

"You should." Another kiss, just below my navel. "Why aren't you?"

Because my fingers were tangled in his hair. Because my hips had canted forward without permission. Because the bond was flooding me with his satisfaction, his reverence, his raw and terrible need... and I was drowning in it.

I hated him. I did.

But hatred had never felt like this.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured against my skin. His tongue traced the ridge of my hip bone, and my knees buckled.

"Nothing."

"Liar." His mouth moved lower. "Tell me again."

"Nothing from you."

"Once more." His breath was hot against my curls now, so close I could feel the promise of him in every nerve ending. "And mean it this time."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. My throat worked around words that wouldn't come, denials, insults, demands that he release me. None of them made it past my lips.

Because his hands had tightened on my thighs, spreading me wider.

Because his tongue had found me at last.The sound I made wasn't human. It was animal, broken, dragged from somewhere deeper than my voice. My back arched off the stone, and my hands fisted in his hair, not to push him away, not to pull him closer, but just to hold on.

He didn't rush. That was the terrible thing. He tasted me like I was something to be savored, not consumed. Slow strokes. Lazy circles. Pauses where he simply breathed against me, letting me feel his heat, letting the anticipation build until I thought I might scream.

"You're so wet," he said, the words vibrating against my most sensitive flesh. "Your body knows what you won't admit."

"Shut up."

But my voice cracked on the last word, and he laughed... a dark, pleased sound that I felt all the way to my spine. His tongue returned to its work, more insistent now, tracing patterns I'd never imagined against the pearl of my sex.

My thighs began to shake.

"Tell me to stop." He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips slick with me. "Say the word, and I'll stop."

I couldn't. I wouldn't. The bond was a wildfire now, consuming everything, my anger, my pride, my three years of running. I felt what he felt: the exquisite torture of my taste, the maddening pulse of me against his tongue, the Hunger that had driven him to this moment.

"Nothing to say?" His tongue circled my entrance, teasing, not entering. "Then you'll listen."

His mouth returned to my pearl, and he drew it between his lips and sucked.

My vision went white. The pleasure was a blade, sharp and precise, cutting through every layer of resistance I'd built. My head fell back. My hips rolled. My body moved of its own accord, grinding against his mouth, chasing something I'd never caught before.

"Beg me."

The command rumbled through me. I shook my head, teeth gritted, pride screaming.

"Beg me, Maeve." His tongue flattened, pressed, held. "You've fought me for three years. Fight this too. Or give in. But don't lie to me."

"I hate you."

"I know." His tongue dipped inside me, just barely, and retreated. "Beg."