Page 33 of Horned to be Wild
He couldn’t resist. “Want to find out?”
She slapped his arm. “Stop joking. This is serious. How am I ever going to—” she gestured with a helpless little movement.
“By being thoroughly, completely prepared.” He did his best to sound confident despite his own doubts.
“I’m pretty sure there’s no preparing for that,” she said faintly, but her eyes never left his cock.
“Touch me,” he growled. “Please, Lila.”
She reached out, her touch tentative at first, her fingertips trailing delicately over his skin, exploring him, exploring the wide shaft and lingering over the bulge in the middle.
“How does that feel?” she asked.
“Good.” His voice was hoarse. “So damn good. More. Please.”
She tried to wrap her hand around him, her fingers small and cool on his heated skin, and a shudder ran through his entire body. He groaned as she started stroking him, sliding her hand up his shaft and curving it over the tip.
“Like this?” she whispered.
“Yes. Just like that.” His hips jerked involuntarily, and he thrust into her hand. “Fuck, Lila.”
She made a satisfied noise, her hand moving faster, more confidently, and his balls tightened as pleasure built. He wanted to make it last but it had been too long and he was already too close.
“Lila,” he choked out. “I’m going to?—”
“Yes. Come for me.” Her voice was low and breathless, her eyes locked on his cock, and that was all it took to send him over the edge, his hips bucking as he came, the hot fluid covering her hand and her breasts and his stomach.
“Fuck.” It took him a long moment to come down from his climax, and when he did he immediately regretted his lack of control. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”
“Don’t you dare apologize. I wanted to make you feel good.”
“You succeeded.”
He left her long enough to fetch a towel and clean her up before returning to bed and pulling the quilt up over them. She was already half asleep as he turned the lantern to low. He pulled her closer, burying his face in her hair once more. The rain lashed at the windows, the storm still raging outside, but inside his cabin, it was warm, and safe, and she was in his arms. And she loved him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lila woke slowly, cocooned in warmth. The storm had passed during the night, leaving behind a tranquil silence broken only by birdsong and the steady rhythm beneath her ear—Torin’s heartbeat.
She kept her eyes closed, savoring the feeling of being nestled against his warm, fur-covered chest, his powerful arm draped protectively around her waist. His comforting scent enveloped her—earth and wood and musk. The simple domesticity of the moment felt terrifyingly, wonderfully right.
When she finally opened her eyes, sunlight was streaming through the cabin windows, catching dust motes dancing in golden beams. She traced a fingertip along the brown fur that covered his chest, marveling at how soft it was despite the hard muscles beneath, how perfectly she fit against him.
He stirred beneath her touch, his amber eyes blinking open to find her watching him. For a breathless moment, she feared he might retreat again, that the vulnerability of the night before would vanish in the harsh light of day. Instead, his mouth curved into that rare, gentle smile that transformed his entire face.
“You’re still here,” he rumbled, voice rough with sleep.
“Where else would I be?” she whispered back.
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his massive hand impossibly gentle. “Hungry?”
Fifteen minutes later, she sat at his rustic wooden table, wrapped in one of his flannel shirts that hung to her knees, watching him cook. He deftly flipped pancakes in a cast-iron skillet, his back to her—a broad expanse of muscle and brown fur above an absolutely perfect ass, somehow accentuated by his tail flicking quietly back and forth.
The simple act of him cooking for her, the quiet intimacy of the morning after the storm, filled her with a warmth that had nothing to do with the mug of coffee cradled between her palms. This felt like a glimpse into what could be—quiet mornings together, the easy rhythm of two people who fit.
But beneath the domestic bliss, a knot of worry tightened in her stomach. Would this last? Or would he withdraw again, retreat behind his walls at the first sign of trouble? His pattern of pushing her away when things deepened between them was painfully consistent.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, setting a plate of golden pancakes in front of her, drizzled with maple syrup that he’d tapped from his own trees.
