Page 99 of Claimed By the Mothman
He came with a snarl that was more cry than breath, a seismic sound that pulsed through every limb. He keened, mouth parting in awe as climax overtook him. His seed flooded into her mouth, hot and sharp and spurting. She swallowed each pulse greedily, tongue flicking against him in slow movements until the final tremor faded from his core.
Nell pulled back, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and rested her cheek against his thigh with a self-satisfied sigh. Her eyes fluttered shut, lips swollen, breath slow and triumphant.
Sig looked down at her, chest heaving. His voice barely held shape. “You have undone me.”
She grinned, slow and smug. “You started it.”
A chitter of laughter escaped him. He reached down, curled a single claw beneath her chin, and guided her upward. Slowly. Carefully.
Their mouths met in a slow, deep kiss. There was no shame in the taste of himself on her lips—only gratitude and hunger for more.
“I have never,” he murmured, voice trembling with awe, “been worshipped like that.”
Nell pulled back infinitesimally with a feline, lethal smile. “Well,” she whispered, brushing her nose against his, “we’ll make sure this isn’t the last time.”
A low click rumbled from his chest as his eyes flashed. With a smooth motion, Sig swept her into his lap and folded his arms around her, bowing his head to her shoulder.
She gasped—half-laugh, half-moan—as her thighs slid around him, the press of her body melting into his. Skin to skin. Heat to heat.
His mouth found the curve of her ear. “I will never stop craving your worship,” he whispered, each word a solemn vow.
“That better be a promise,” Nell murmured, kissing his temple.
His answer was a thrum that vibrated straight through her spine.
And beneath the floors, inside the walls, braided into the breath of Greymarket Towers themselves, a soft rumble rose in agreement as if the building, too, had borne witness and approved, fully.
Chapter 19
He was trying to be helpful. This, in itself, was a complication.
The electric kettle wheezed, puffing steam in irregular bursts like a creature in pain. Sig stared at it warily. The human contraption had claimed, through a sticker on its side, that it would sing when ready. Thus far, it had only hissed like a cornered animal. He did not trust it.
He did, however, trusther. Which was why he stood here, blinking down at a box of Soothing Citrus Wellness Blend and wondering what kind of sap-witted, nectar-addled insect had signed off on this flavor.
He had felt her light dim yesterday, recoiling from the Edward’s presence like a prodded wound. Last night, he had poured himself into her again and again, hoping to ease her pain. Now, in the hush of morning, her light glowed again. Still bruised, but healing.
He would do anything to help it heal. Even this. Even tea.
The citrus scent crept through the apartment like ghost’s breath. Beneath it, softer notes lingered: the perfume of her soap, the sleep-warm scent of her skin, the memory of her voice breaking on his name.
He adjusted the kettle’s angle as if that might appease it. It spat at him. He hissed back softly, so as not to wake her.
This was love,he reminded himself. And love, apparently, required boiling water.
Nell padded into the kitchen, her hair damp and curling at the edges. The robe she wore had slipped crooked on one side, her collarbone peeking out from beneath it like a secret.
Sig turned toward her, the box of citrus tea still clenched in one clawed hand. His heart did something inconvenient in his chest.
She didn’t speak. Just crossed the floor, curled her fingers around the mug in his hand, and pressed a kiss, slow and certain, into the center of his chest.
He chittered quietly, and one claw rose, grazing the edge of her jaw.
“You made tea,” she murmured.
“I attempted to,” he confessed. “The kettle protested. But I prevailed.”
She took a sip. A pause. “It’s perfect,” she said, with a soft smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
