Page 47 of Reptile Dysfunction
“I prefer thorough.” Her hands map the planes of my chest, then trace my tribal tattoo with deliberate slowness. “Your reputation depends on attention to detail.”
The truth compulsion activates before I can control it, my eyes shifting amber. “Tell me what you need.”
“You,” she breathes, caught in the gentle magic but welcoming it. “All of you. Every inch, every ability, every way you make me feel like the only woman in the world.”
Her honesty, pulled from her by my power, makes me flip us in one smooth motion. She gasps as I pin her beneath me, my size and strength on full display. This position emphasizes everydifference between us—my hands frame her face completely, my body covers hers entirely.
“Since you mentioned thoroughness,” I murmur against her throat, “let me demonstrate proper attention to detail.”
This time, there’s no urgency, no desperate fumbling. I map every inch of her body with methodical precision, discovering that she makes the sexiest sounds when I bite gently at the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, that she completely falls apart when Sterling traces delicate patterns on her collarbone while I worship her with my tongue.
By the time I finally slide inside her, we’re both desperate and trembling. The angle—her legs wrapped around my waist, me braced above her—puts my full strength on display while making her feel precious and protected.
“Tell me,” I demand, my voice rough with dominance, “tell me how this feels.”
Under the compulsion, truth spills from her lips: “Like you own every part of me. Like I was made to take all of you. Like I never want anyone else to see me like this.”
I set a rhythm designed to drive us both to the edge of sanity—deep, claiming strokes that hit every sensitive spot while Sterling creates intricate patterns on her skin with his flickering tongue. The feedback of sensation builds until the boundaries between us blur completely.
When she breaks, it’s with my name torn from her throat and her nails marking my shoulders. The sight and sound of her pleasure triggers my own release, and I bury myself deep with a hoarse shout that echoes off the curved walls.
Afterward, as we lie tangled in the morning light, she traces lazy patterns on my chest while my snakes bask in complete contentment.
“Your research questions thoroughly answered?” I ask, pressing a kiss to her temple.
“For now,” she says with a satisfied smile. “Though I may need to conduct follow-up studies. For thoroughness.”
“Guardian Solutions does pride itself on comprehensive services.”
Her laugh vibrates against my chest, and I realize this is what success actually looks like: not just the business contracts or the community acceptance, but the woman in my arms who chose me over every safe, sensible option.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thad
Two nights later, the text from Sloane comes at 2 AM:Protestors at town hall. Anti-monster group. Need you.
She had a girls-only supper with her mom and stayed there for the night.
My snakes stiffen like drawn bows before I’m fully awake, already tracking potential threats as I grab my leather jacket. Sterling, usually the showoff, coils protectively around my temple as I fire up the Harley. Even my most flamboyant snake knows when a situation calls for enforcer focus rather than theatrical flair—a reminder that his shameless preening is a choice, not his only mode of operation.
The scene at the town hall tells its story quickly: about thirty protesters with badly spelled signs—”No MoNSTERZ in R Naborhood!” and “Keep HUMANS HUMANE – No More INFLITRASHUN!”—facing off against local police who look itchy to do something.
The upcoming Revelation celebration has drawn exactly the attention we were worried about.
“Thank God you’re here.” Sloane hurries over, notepad in hand. She’s wearing what looks like hastily thrown-on clothes, but her eyes are keen. “They showed up about an hour ago. The police notified us immediately. Dad’s inside with the crisis team, but—”
A bottle shatters against the town hall steps. Despite the tension, Sloane’s hand finds mine for just a moment, her thumb brushing across my knuckles in a gesture that somehow conveys both “be careful” and “I believe in you.” My snakes straighten with renewed purpose.
“Inside.” I place my hand firmly on the small of her back, already moving to evade the next projectile. “Now.”
“I’m covering this.”
“Cover it from somewhere less likely to get you hurt.” My snakes rise defensively as another bottle flies. “Please.”
Something in my voice must convince her because she retreats to the doorway, though her phone is already recording.
Time to be professional.
