Page 42 of Panther in the Shadows
"Not yet." He catches my hands. "I want to be inside you when I come. Want to feel you around me. Tell me you want this. Say it."
"I've never been more sure of anything."
He kisses me again. Deep and thorough and claiming. When he finally pulls back, his eyes have gone dark with intent.
"Don't move."
The command sends a shiver through me. He steps back just far enough to unbuckle his belt. The leather slides free with a whisper of sound that makes my mouth go dry. His hands move to his pants. One button. Then another. The fabric parts, revealing a strip of taut abdomen, the sharp cut of muscle at his hips.
He shoves the pants down along with his boxer briefs in one smooth motion.
My breath catches.
He's beautiful. All lean muscle and golden skin, but it's the thick length of him that makes heat pool low in my belly. Hard and straining, curving slightly toward his stomach. A bead of moisture glistens at the flushed tip, and the sight makes my core clench with anticipation.
"Like what you see?" The rough edge to his voice tells me he knows exactly what effect he's having.
My tongue darts out to wet my lips. His cock twitches in response, and satisfaction curls through me at the visible proof of his want.
"See something you like?" Amusement threads through the roughness.
"Very much."
"Wait." The word comes out breathless. "Protection. I'm not on anything."
"Shifters can't pass anything on." His hand slides up my thigh. "And I can't get a non panther-shifter pregnant. Cross-species conception doesn't work that way."
Heat floods my face at the casual mention of biology. "You're sure?"
"Positive." His thumb brushes across sensitive flesh, making me gasp. "I want nothing between us, Moira. Want to feel every inch of you. But if you need?—"
"No." The word comes fast. Certain. "Nothing between us."
His pupils dilate. A growl rumbles in his chest. Then he's back between my legs. Positioning himself. The blunt head pressing against me.
"Look at me." His hand cups my jaw. "Don't look away."
Our eyes lock. Hold. He pushes inside. Slow. Controlled. Letting me feel every inch as my body adjusts to his size. It burns. Stretches. Borders on too much. Then he's fully seated, and the burn transforms into something else entirely.
"Okay?" The word comes strained. Like it's taking everything he has not to move.
"Yes. God, yes. You can move. Please move."
He pulls out almost completely. Pauses. Then slams back in.
The desk creaks. Papers scatter. Evidence bags slide to the floor. Neither of us care.
He sets a punishing rhythm. Each thrust drives me higher up the desk, papers scattering, evidence forgotten. The slap of skin against skin fills the room along with my ragged breathing and his low growls. He takes what he needs without apology, and I give it freely.
My legs wrap around his hips, heels digging into the small of his back. Pulling him deeper. Demanding more. Meeting each stroke with a roll of my hips that makes him curse in Spanish.
His mouth finds my throat. Teeth scraping across the sensitive skin where my pulse hammers. He bites down. Not enough to break skin, but enough to make me cry out. Enough to leave a mark that will be visible tomorrow. The thought sends a dark thrill through me—being marked by him, claimed in a way everyone will see.
One hand grips my hip hard enough that I'll have bruises in the shape of his fingers. The other fists in my hair, using the leverage to control everything. The angle. The depth. The pace. He holds my head exactly where he wants it, forcing me tofeel every thrust, every slide of him inside me. The desk groans beneath us with each impact.
And I love it.
Love surrendering control to someone strong enough to handle it. Love being wanted with this intensity. Love matching his strength with my own.
