Page 71 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

“That’s…” I gasp as his lips catch my nipple and pull. “That’s very possessive.”

“I’m a lycan.” His tongue circles, teases. “Possessive is in the job description.”

He works his way down my body with devastating slowness, kissing, licking, occasionally biting just hard enough to make me gasp. Every time his teeth graze my skin, I feel an answering pulse of heat between my legs.

“Pants,” I manage. “Take off your…”

“Demanding.”

“You like it.”

“I do.”

His pants go. My leggings. And then there’s nothing between us but heat and want and the sound of rain against the windows.

He settles between my thighs, and I can feel him there, the blunt, hot press of his cock right against my entrance, and the anticipation alone is enough to make me clench around nothing.

“Fable.”

I meet his eyes. Gold and blazing and utterly focused on me.

“I need you to know,” he says, voice rough, “that this isn’t casual. This means something. You mean something.”

“I know.”

“Say it.”

“This means something. You mean something.” I reach up, cup his face in my hands. “Now please, please stop being noble and just…”

He sinks into me in one long stroke.

The sound I make is embarrassing, a high, broken moan that I’d be mortified about if I could think clearly. But I can’t think clearly. I can’t think at all. There’s only the stretch of him, the fullness, the overwhelming rightness of being joined.

“Okay?” His voice is strained with the effort of holding still. “Tell me if…”

“Move. God, please, move…”

He does.

Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that make me feel every inch of him. Then faster when I urge him on, my nails dragging down his spine, heel pressing into his ass, demanding more.

“That’s it.” His voice is wrecked, broken. “Take it. Take everything.”

“Harder…”

He obliges. The headboard hits the wall with every thrust, a rhythm that matches the rain still pounding against the windows. I’m making sounds I don’t recognize, whimpers, gasps, broken versions of his name, and he’s drinking them all in, watching my face like he’s memorizing every second of it.

“So tight.” He buries his face in my neck, and I feel his teeth scrape my pulse point again, that hint of sharpness that makes something primal clench inside me. “You feel so good. You’re going to unmake me.”

“Tell me.”

“You feel like coming home.” His hips snap harder, driving deeper. “You feel like everything I’ve waited for. You feel like mine.”

The word sends me spiraling toward the edge, that possessive claim that should probably alarm me but instead makes something ancient and wanting unfurl in my chest.

“Orion… I’m going to…”

“Yes. Come for me. Let me feel you.”