Page 20 of The Steel Beast’s Heart

Both of my hands go to his jaw. His fur runs warm and coarse under my palms, his pulse hammering under my thumbs. I pull his face down to mine and kiss him before I can talk myself out of it—tentative, half-expecting him to pull back, not sure this is something I'm allowed to have.

He doesn't pull back. His hands land on my waist and his fingers close around my hips and he drags me against him and kisses me like he's done pretending too. The purr hits the second my body presses flush against his. It rips through his chest and into mine, and the whole compound can hear it.

I'm standing in a gravel lot in front of a compound full of people with my hands on a minotaur's face and his purr rattling the fence chain behind me, and the only thought I can form is that I should have done this two years ago in my intake building when he brought me a Cooper's hawk and said the species name like it mattered.

His apartment door closes behind us and his hands shake when he reaches for me.

The buttons on his shirt resist my fingers and I pull too hard and one of them pops off and bounces across the floor. His fingers find my shirt buttons and mine find his belt and we're pulling at each other's clothes, just pure need, until his shirt hits the floor and mine follows it.

He stops. Looks at me standing there in my bra and jeans, his hands hover at his sides like he's afraid to touch what's in front of him.

I laugh.

He stops.

"You're studying me."

"Two years of practice." He smiles, and it changes his whole face.

He unhooks my bra and drops it and his mouth goes to my neck, his breath runs hot against my skin, and the purr fills the room. His hands move down my sides. He pays attention. When his thumb drags across my nipple and my breath catches, he does it again. When his mouth moves to my breast and my fingers dig into his shoulders, he takes his time there.

His chest presses against mine, fur dense and warm, his body throwing heat like a furnace. His hands find the button on my jeans and he peels them down my hips along with my underwear, and then his follow, the bed hits the back of my knees before I realize we've crossed the room.

I touch the base of his left horn.

His whole body locks.

The horn runs smooth near the tip and ridged at the base, the bone warm under my fingertips. His purr drops lower than I've heard it go. Deeper. The bed frame vibrates with it. I feel it in my spine and between my hips. His arms brace on either side of me, every muscle in his shoulders rigid.

I run my thumb along the ridge where his horn meets his skull.

"Isla." My name comes out of him broken in half.

I trace the ridge again. His forehead drops to my collarbone, and the sound he makes goes through my chest. He presses against my thigh—hard, thick, his cock between us—and the size of him sends heat through my belly and I arch up against him.

He reaches between us. His thumb presses against my clit, and the moan that comes out of my mouth surprises both of us. He circles it. He reads my face the way he reads vitals—watching, adjusting, finding the rhythm that makes my hips roll against his hand. Two fingers slide inside me, stretching me, his thumb still working.

I pull him down against me.

"I'm not fragile, Thomas."

His arms give. His weight settles over me—not all of it, he's too big for that, but enough that he's everywhere. He pulls his fingers out and positions himself. The head of his cock pushes against my entrance, thick and blunt, and the first inch stretches me open in a slow burn that makes my nails dig into his back.

He watches my face and then pushes deeper, inch by inch, every muscle in his body fighting every instinct telling him to drive forward. My hands slide up his body and find his horn again. The purr shatters into a growl. He pushes the rest of the way in and I moan against his shoulder because the fullness of him hits deep enough that I forget what I planned to say next.

"Okay?" His voice grinds low against my ear.

"Yes, please move."

The first thrust shakes the headboard against the wall. His hips roll, deep and steady, each stroke dragging the full length of his cock against the spot inside me that whites out the edges of my vision. I keep my hand on his horn. Every time I touch the ridge the growl breaks into a purr and the purr breaks into a growl and it drives his pace faster, harder, his control stripping away in increments.

His thumb returns to my clit. He circles in time with his thrusts and the heat builds low in my belly, winding tighter each time he pushes deep, his breath ragged against my neck. The man inside me is not the man who labels every hook on his pegboard. He's shaking. He's vocal in a way I didn't expect—low groans and moans that vibrate through him into me, my name in fragments, the purr underneath all of it.

My orgasm hits from the center outward, clenching around him in pulses that pull a sound from his chest I'll hear for the rest of my life. He thrusts twice more, deep enough that my spine arches off the mattress, and comes inside me with his face buried in my neck and the growl dissolving into a purr that shakes through the bed and the wall and the floor.

His weight shifts to his elbows. His forehead rests against mine. The purr rolls on, and I feel it in every bone.

I curl against him, my cheek on his chest, and the purr hasn't stopped since the lot. I don't think he can stop it even if he wanted to.