That’s what he smells like.
He’s a combination of leather and wood. Maybe a hint of bergamot? I’ve never associated these scents with Lan, but I’ve also never heard him speak in that gravelly voice from earlier, so maybe he has a persona for nights like these.
Nights where he sheds his slick, elegant façade and fully embraces the beast inside him.
The brash ruthlessness of his touch, scent, and whole existence flares and ripples in the air around me.
Silence shimmers in the calm. Only my shattered breaths and his deep ones linger.
It’s a minute, no, possibly a second, before everything crashes down.
The sequence of his movements roughens as his free hand pulls on my jeans. He doesn’t undo the buttons—he all but shoves them down, creating a violent friction against my core and thighs.
The chilling air assaults my underwear-covered arse.
Something happens then.
Aside from my gasp and open mouth.
I come to focus on my pussy that’s aching, pulsing, and absolutely shivering with the need for any sort of stimulation.
Did I become turned on just now? Or maybe it started during the marathonic hunt?
I thought I could like this, but I wasn’t ready to actually be so into it that being chased would bring me to this state.
No, it’s not only about being chased.
I had to be caught, too.
The beast at my back must also feel it when he pulls my underwear aside and presses his fingers against my needy core.
A deep groan spills from his throat, and that sound, coupled with his callous fingers against my most intimate part, triggers a bizarre sensation.
My back arches again, but it’s for a completely different reason than a fight. I’m reaching for that raw power flowing from him, but a mere shove of his knee pins me back in place.
He strokes my folds roughly, brutally, until my lower half is floundering, begging, nearly dissolving for more.
But he doesn’t give me more.
His middle finger ghosts near my opening, hovering, flickering, lingering, but never slides inside.
I can feel the warmth emanating off his skin, the reprieve from the cold air, and the promise of forming a shield against it.
The more he touches me everywhere except for where I need it the most, the messier I become.
I don’t recognize the incoherent mix of noises that spill out of me. Every time I buck my hips, he stiffens his grip on my hair, warning me without words to stay in place.
That he’s the one who’s running the show.
The one who’s in control.
The one who can both hurt me and please me if he chooses to.
A shiver goes through me at that thought, but I remember that I have the power, too.
Smoke.
The word has been hovering at the tip of my tongue ever since I made a run for it. If I say it, everything will end.