With extreme care, he lays the glowing strand against the bare skin of my throat. The touch is cool silk and then sudden, searing heat, a feeling like a brand and a blessing all at once.
The sensation shoots down my body, and between my legs I feel a liquid fire of pure want. My head falls back into the impossibly soft cushion of the nest, my neck arched in offering.
I want him. All of him. The monster and the artist, the hermit and the surprisingly attentive lover. I want to be the one who ends his eighty years of solitude.
I part my lips, fully expecting his kiss, but he denies me. Instead, he braces his hands on either side of my head, his legs locking into place around the hammock, effectively pinning me with his body.
The predatory intensity in his eyes is a physical force, stripping away every last one of my defenses until I am completely exposed. His gaze drops from my eyes to my mouth, then lower, then he reaches down, not with his hand, but with the razor-sharp tip of one of his legs.
My breath catches as he hooks the claw into the small metal tab of my zipper. The rasp of metal teeth separating is deafening in the sacred quiet of his workshop, a sound of finality, of surrender.
With my pants now unfastened, he looks back up, meeting my eyes. The scholarly, curious artist is gone, replaced entirely bythe ancient predator who has just cornered his chosen prey. The hunger in his gaze is a promise of utter devastation.
“The ritual begins now,” he announces with a hunger that has waited decades to finally be fed.
Chapter 13
Bound for Pleasure
Riven
I watch June’s eyes widenas I announce the beginning of the ritual, her pupils dilating until they nearly swallow the color of her irises. The predator in me purrs with satisfaction. She wants this—wants me—as desperately as I want her.
“What exactly does this ritual involve?” she asks as I use the sharp tip of one leg to pull her zipper all the way down.
“First,” I explain, my voice echoing lowly in the cavern, “I bind you with bonding-silk. Then I make you mine in every way a Vyder can claim his mate.”
A visible shiver runs through her body at my words. The hammock beneath her shifts with the movement, and I adjust my position, legs braced firmly around the edges to keep it stable.
“The silk,” I continue, extending my wrists to produce the rich burgundy threads, “remains connected to me during the ritual. Think of it as a direct line between our bodies.”
“So you’ll feel what I feel?” she asks, propping herself up on her elbows to watch as the silk extends.
“In a manner of speaking.” I lean closer, mandibles clicking softly near her ear. “I’ll feel every tremor, every pulse, every surge of heat beneath your skin. And you’ll feel every vibration I send back through the strands.”
She swallows hard, the movement of her throat a mesmerizing sight.
I begin to produce the silk in earnest now, thick strands flowing from my inner wrists. Unlike the utilitarian webs I spin for security or the decorative threads I use for my art, this silk is alive with a glowing burgundy that pulses with my heartbeat. It’s an intimate part of me, carrying my scent, my essence.
“Give me your hands,” I command, and she complies without hesitation, lifting her wrists above her head.
With deliberate slowness, I wrap the first strand around her left wrist, then loop it through the hammock’s edge before securing her right. The silk adheres instantly to the hammock’s fibers, creating an unbreakable bond while remaining connected to me. Through this living tether, I immediately sense the acceleration of her pulse, a subtle, delicious vibration that travels back to me.
“Too tight?” I ask, knowing full well they’re perfect.
“No,” she breathes. “It feels… warm. Nice.”
“Good.” I move down her body, using my multiple limbs to efficiently remove her pants while keeping her shirt in place for now. With her lower half exposed, I create two more strands from my wrists and secure her ankles to opposite sides of the hammock, spreading her legs wide.
“This,” I tell her as I finish the last binding, “is how Vyders have displayed their mates for millennia. Open. Vulnerable. Completely at our mercy.”
The hammock cradles her body perfectly, supporting her in a slightly reclined position that displays her delicious pussy to my hungry gaze. With her limbs secured to the four corners, she forms a perfect X against the backdrop of my silk.
The sight of her bound by my bonding-silk triggers something primitive and possessive in me, a biological imperative that has waited eight decades to be fulfilled.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, circling the hammock to admire her from every angle. My scholar’s mind catalogues the aesthetics of the scene: the contrast of her soft human skin against my silk, the way the hammock’s curve complements the arch of her back.
But my predator’s instincts are focused on far more primal concerns. My mate is displayed before me, ready to be claimed, and I can hardly hold back a moment longer.
