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“I’ve had my fill of virgins,” he growls, pressing me tighter against him.

His attention lingers on my lips, and he claims my bottom one with his mouth, sucking gently as he guides me backward until I’m flush against the floor, soft fur beneath my back.

“I can smell your desire,” he whispers, nose brushing against my throat. “Tell me, Rory, how wet are you?”

“Touch me and find out for yourself,” I breathe.

Without pause or pretense, he tears my underthings away like they’re made of tissue, not lace. His icy fingers drag against the limited space between us. Over the curve of my breast and peak of my nipple, across my stomach and the sharp edge of my hip bone, until he meets the space between my thighs. He works my clit. It’s as if he’s keenly aware of my every breath, every sensation, and he catches on rather quickly to what I like. His fingers dip lower, sliding one through my slickness and presses inside. I gasp as my heat swallows the chill of his touch.

“Drenched,” he hums, kissing me and inserting a second finger. “Absolutely soaked.”

“More,” I beg as he slowly pumps his fingers inside me. “I want more.”

“You’re so tight, Rory.” He thrusts another finger into me, hard and fast. My moans come in quick succession, and I’m gasping for air, for release. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to take all of me.”

As a shock rolls through me, his name parts my lips like a promise, like a prayer. “Quill.”

Lost in a haze of passion or perhaps feral with need, he withdraws his fingers from me and removes his shirt. He unlaces his pants and shimmies them down his muscular thighs. Thoroughly naked and incredibly built, he engulfs me with his powerful body, positioning himself between my legs. He meets my gaze, indigo eyes like liquid starlight. “If I’m too much, you will tell me.”

I note the size of him, mouth watering at the sight.

“I can take you,” I say needily, spreading my legs wider.

“We’ll see about that,” he says as he guides the tip of his cock to my entrance and slowly sinks into me.

For a moment, I fear he will tear me apart.

But my body adjusts, and I’m sighing in pleasure rather than hissing in pain as he moves ever so carefully until I’ve taken every delicious inch of him.

“Fuck.” His eyelids flutter shut as he moves deliberately and in an unhurried rhythm. “Fuck.”

“You don’t have to be gentle,” I whisper, mouth pressing into his shoulder. “I won’t break.”

Though it won’t matter if I do.

He lifts himself, still moving inside me, still tender. A strange look passes over his features, carving them into a mixture of surprise and worry and… is that longing?

Pushing a strand of hair from my eyes, he cups my cheek as if memorizing me. He worships my skin with kisses, tongue tasting the dew that bubbles to the surface. His mouth lingers on my neck, teeth grazing its supple skin.

Still, he doesn’t bite me.

I wrap my arms around his neck and move against him, wanting more, needing to feel him deeper. A gruff growl rattles up his throat as he bucks into me, kissing and nipping my lips, pumping harder and harder.

Desperation kicks in as we attempt to make this brief moment last. My breathy moans become ferocious screams of pleasure as wave after wave of bliss crashes over me, and I haul his mouth back up to mine just as the stained-glass window to our left shatters.

Chapter 6

RORY

Quill throws his naked body over mine, shielding me from the spray of glass. He runs his eyes up and down the length of me, silently assessing as Cress launches herself through the window, silver stake gleaming in the firelight.

Heavily pregnant, she still handles herself the way any werewolf would when protecting a member of her pack—with a silent and lethal calm and a low, dangerous growl. She bares her teeth at Quill, who, seemingly pleased with his assessment, puts distance between the two of us. Colorful shards protrude from his back, shoulders, and powerful arms. He plucks them from his skin and drops them to the wooden floor without saying a word.

The gashes heal before my eyes.

Cress lifts her hand, readying to throw the stake as if she’s throwing a javelin to impress King Joal during the summer games. My body reacts quicker than my brain as I fling myself in front of Quill, arms spread out defensively. Protectively. “Cress, stop.”

“Get out of the way, Rory,” she demands, voice deadly and cold. She grips the stake tighter, though her hand shakes. “It took me a bit to remember where I’ve heard your name, Quill Godrickson, famed leader of the Mors Soluta.”