Page 103 of His to Hunt

"Luna," I warn, voice already rough with want.

"I see you," she whispers, and the words are both benediction and surrender. "All of you."

That's when I break.

I guide her to the recliner like I'm leading her to the altar—my hand firm at the small of her back, not requesting but claiming. Her feet are bare, silent on the concrete, each stepleaving smudges of gold and violet on the floor, a trail of proof that she's already mine.

"Sit," I say—low, rough—and she does, but barely. Perched on the edge, thighs tensed, eyes locked on me like she already knows I'm about to ruin her.

I drop to my knees.

Not in reverence.

In hunger.

My hands find her thighs, spreading her open with a grip that says stay right there. I kiss up the soft flesh, slow and savoring, until her hips twitch forward and she lets out a strangled sound—something between a gasp and a whimper.

"You've covered me in your colors," I murmur, dragging my mouth over her skin, teeth grazing. "Now let me cover you in mine."

I shove the shirt higher. She's not wearing anything underneath. Just bare, perfect pussy—wet and already fucking glistening for me. My breath hitches. I don't hide it. I want her to hear what she does to me. Want her to feel how hard I am, how close I am to losing control.

I nuzzle closer, letting my stubble scrape against her inner thigh until she shudders, her hands fisting in my hair with a desperation that lights my blood on fire.

Then I taste her.

And everything in me fucking snaps.

I groan against the slick mess of her, tongue moving with devastating purpose—filthy and reverent in equal measure. I lap at her like it's the only thing keeping me alive, my hands gripping her thighs so tight I'll leave bruises. I want her shaking, thrashing, sobbing my name. I want her ruined on my tongue—wrecked so thoroughly she feels it every time she thinks about my mouth.

She moans—sharp, uncontrolled—and her body arches off the chair. I follow, dragging her to the edge, my shoulders wedged between her legs. She has nowhere to go. Nowhere but into the storm of my mouth.

"Beckett," she breathes, voice cracking.

I look up, lips wet, chin drenched with her cum, and the sight of her wrecked for me? That's the fucking masterpiece. Head tilted back. Eyes glassy. Mouth parted. Her entire body trembling with the weight of what I'm giving her.

I don't stop. I won't stop. My tongue flicks, presses, circles with vicious precision until she's sobbing—sobbing—my name. Until she breaks apart so violently the chair rocks beneath her and her thighs clamp around my head like she never wants me to leave.

And maybe I won't. Maybe I'll worship her here until she forgets her own name. Until the only thing she can say is mine.

She shatters again, a softer wave, her body twitching as I gentle the pressure, coaxing her down with reverent, slow licks. Her hands slide from my hair to my shoulders, nails dragging, painting me in streaks of color and surrender.

When I finally pull back, I rest my cheek against her inner thigh. Her pulse is wild against my skin, her breath unsteady, her entire body limp.

"You knelt for me," she whispers, voice wrecked. "Like you meant it."

I lift my head, eyes dark with everything I've been holding back. "I did mean it," I growl. "I'll kneel for you. I'll burn for you. I'll ruin for you."

I rise, slow and unhurried, dragging her with me. She's bare beneath the shirt, legs shaky, mouth kiss-bruised. I kiss her, deep and dirty, letting her taste the truth of what we've done—what we are.

She trembles in my arms. I don't let go.

"I want to paint you again," she murmurs against my lips, voice full of awe.

I smile, biting gently at her bottom lip. "Then do it. Paint me ruined. Paint me yours."

And I carry her back to the bed, her body draped over mine like surrender, both of us smeared in gold and lust and something that might just be love.

Not sweet. Not soft.

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