Page 107 of Claimed By the Mothman
Nell inhaled, slow and steady, pulling in the scent of her Harbinger like it might be the last clean breath she’d ever take.
“If this is all the time we have left…” she whispered into the space between his ribs, the space where his heart stammered. “…then let’s make the most of it.”
Chapter 22
Nell led Sig into the bedroom with slow, deliberate steps. His grip in her hand was too light, like he feared the weight of him might break her.
When she reached the bed, she stopped. Turned. Sig didn’t look at her.
She lifted her hands and cupped his face, gently but firmly turning it so he had no choice but to meet her gaze.
Then she kissed him. Not hungrily. Not yet. A quiet press of mouth to mouth. “Sit,” she whispered.
He obeyed without question, lowering himself to the edge of the bed.
She stepped between his legs. Her hands returned to his face, cradling him like something precious. Her thumbs stroked along the curve of his cheekbones, then up, brushing lightly across the arch of his antennae. One trembled under her touch.
Nell’s hands slipped behind his back, finding the hidden clasps that bound his shirt. As she worked, her fingers brushed the seam where wing met skin.
He shuddered, a tremor that rolled through his whole frame.
She moved to the front and unfastened each button with deliberate care, parting the fabric with the reverence of an archivist unfolding a priceless manuscript. Her palms skimmed his chest, through the fine, downy velvet fuzz, and she leaned in and kissed the hollow of his throat.
Sig’s arms surged up and he crushed her to him like she was the axis that kept his world in orbit. “I was made to witness endings,” he keened quietly. “But I will not survive this.”
She smoothed the soft down atop his head, fingers gentle as breath. “You will,” Nell murmured. “You will survive. For me.”
Gently, she pushed him back slightly, just far enough for her to meet his eyes.
“Lay down, Sig.”
He obeyed without hesitation Still clothed, Nell climbed onto the bed above him. Her thighs bracketed his hips, and she settled her weight over the radiant heat of him. He inhaled sharply, and Nell kissed him—slow, sure, and no longer gentle.
—
Nell hovered above him, her hair falling forward in loose, deliberate chaos. Her dress still clung to her curves, bunched slightly at the hips where she straddled him, and her eyes held a clarity that stripped him bare.
He had seen flames consume. Storms break. Wings tear from bodies. But he had never seen anything as fearsome and devastating as Nell Townsend looking down at him like she meant to love himon purpose.
With a wicked grin, she slid her hands along his chest and stroked the fine, dust-soft down. Every glide of her fingertips lit his nerves, and Sig’s breath pulled from him in short, wrecked bursts.
She leaned in, voice low and coaxing. “Look at you,” she crooned, her hands mapping him. “You’re magnificent.”
His claws twitched against the sheets. He wanted to grasp her and bury his hands in her hair. To hold her hips and beg. But he didn’t move.
She took his hand and brought it to her mouth. Slowly, she slid one long, curved digit between her lips and he couldn’t stop the sound that tore loose from his throat—half-chitter, half-plea.
She slid his finger from her mouth and smiled down at him. “You’re doing so well. Just stay there. Let me love you.”
—
Sig’s eyes were wide and glowing. He looked wrecked, willing, and utterly at her mercy.
So she slid lower. Her hands found the fastenings of his pants and eased the fabric down. He lifted his hips and she peeled the clothing away, down his thighs, past knees and calves, until he lay naked before her.
She kissed his stomach—soft, open-mouthed kisses that mapped the flex of muscle and the shiver beneath—then trailed lower until she reached the juncture of his hips.
His slit quivered with anticipation, and she touched it gently, a feather-light stroke along the edge of the seam.
