The rug beneath the bed looks so plush my toes ache to sink into it. Custom furniture—sleek, modern, expensive—fills the space like someone staged it for a magazine. And there is an actual marble fireplace. A fireplace. In a bedroom. Everything about it screams wealth and luxurious design.
But something prickles along my spine. A feeling of being watched. My breath catches in my throat as I scan the room again, slower this time.
And there—in the corner where the shadows gather thickest—is... him.
"You're awake." His voice rolls through the room like distant thunder across mountains, making every hair on my body stand at attention.
He steps from the shadows, and time stops.
He's massive. Eight feet at least, maybe more. Gray skin that looks like polished stone, large wings folded against his back, and eyes glowing amber in the dim light as he watches me.
My hand flies to my chest, pressing against my racing heart. And the moment I freeze, he does too. Like a predator trying not to spook its prey.
His eyes flash, briefly glowing brighter before the light disappears completely. Then he raises his massive hands, palms out in surrender. "I didn't mean to startle you," he says, his voice even lower, softer now. "The last thing I want is for you to be afraid of me."
Am I afraid of him?
I should be. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to run, hide, do something other than sit here staring at him like he's a five-course meal and I'm starving.
He killed someone, brought me somewhere I don't know, undressed me, and did something impossible to heal me. I should be terrified.
But I want him. Want to be closer to him, learn more about him, understand him, figure out what he is and how he's lived.
I could say it's my natural curiosity, that it's simply because of my background in anthropology. But that would be a lie.
I don't want to study him; I want to fuck him.
I want to know what his hands would feel like on my skin. How his body would feel pressed against mine.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. I know that, I do, but I can't help myself.
Every time he breathes it draws my eyes to his expansive, muscular chest. I've never seen so many abs in my life.
And his size... he's so much bigger than me. And I can't help but wonder if he's proportional everywhere.
I want him to spread me open on this bed and take me. Hard, and rough, and raw. I want it so badly my pussy clenches and I have to squeeze my thighs tight together.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
"I'm not afraid. I'm... confused," I finally manage, my voice cracking on the last word. I clear my throat, needing water. Needing space, needing him to stop looking at me like he wants to devour me because if he doesn’t, I’ll let him.
I lick my lips, and his eyes follow my tongue.
His pupils dilate, his chest expanding with a sharp breath, his hands flexing at his sides.
He wants me too.
The sexual tension is so thick I can taste it, and it fills me with pride.
This man is so strong, so dangerous, and yet he wants me. The fact that someone so magnificent could desire me just as strongly as I do him makes me feel powerful. Like a temptress, a goddess. A queen.
I want to test him. Push him further. See how much control he really has and what it would take for him to snap.
His eyes scan my body, like a slow caress from head to toe. And when he speaks his voice is lower, rougher than before. "May I get you some water?"
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
He steps toward the dresser then pours me a glass of water from a beautiful crystal dispenser. Smiling, he approaches the bed slowly, deliberately, as if he believes that if he moves too quickly, I’ll run. He hands me the glass from a distance, and I can’t help but find his care charming.
