Page 37 of Silver Slayer

Then his gaze sharpened, focusing with fiery intensity on me. And the expression that crossed his face was not what I expected. Not the predatory hunger I’d braced myself for. Not the instant, aggressive claim I’d half-anticipated from a fierce warrior.

Instead, his eyes dropped to my hand, still wrapped around him through the fabric of his kilt, and raw, unguarded emotion swept across his features.

Shock. Desire. And beneath both, a flicker of disbelief.

“Quin.” My name came out rough and broken. His hand found my wrist. Not to restrain me, only to make certain I was real. That my hand was where he thought it was.

His scales shifted. Pale silver deepened into vivid blues. That same low thrumming started deep in his chest. Instead of soothing, it settled low in my belly with a lick of heat that set my sex on fire.

“Hey,” I said thickly. “You’re awake.”

When his eyes flicked up to meet mine, his irises had gone molten, the pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the light. His chest was rising and falling faster now, the sedative’s easy rhythm giving way to an urgency that matched my own.

“You’re touching me,” he said, and the words sounded like they’d been dragged across gravel.

I tightened my grip just slightly, a deliberate squeeze, and watched his jaw clench, the muscles along his throat working as he swallowed hard. “Observant.”

“Quin.” He said my name again, and this time there was a warning in it. Or maybe a plea. His hand was still on mywrist, and I could feel the tremor in his fingers, the fine, barely controlled vibration of a male holding himself together by the thinnest possible margin. “You should?—”

“You want me to stop?” I asked, keeping my voice light, casual, the same tone I used when I was defusing something volatile. But my hand didn’t move. My fingers stayed exactly where they were, wrapped around the thick, rigid length of him. Even through the fabric, I could feel the ridge of a thick vein running beneath my fingertips, hot and drumming with each pulse, a demand waiting to be answered.

His throat worked. His scales deepened another shade of blue, and his hearts were hammering so fast I could see the vibration in his chest. His grip on my wrist tightened, not painfully, but with a desperation that told me everything his words wouldn’t.

“Never,” he said the word like it cost him. “But you need to know…”

I shifted on the bunk, moving closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my lips. My hand still held him, and I gave him another deliberate squeeze that made his entire body jerk.

“Know what?” I asked. The molten silver of his gaze flickered, and for a moment, he looked like he was trying to solve a complex equation while someone was shouting in his ear.

“I’ve never…” he paused. His gaze dropped to my hand, still wrapped around him, and his jaw clenched so hard I could hear his molars crack.

“You mean sex?”

He made a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a growl, and his hips swiveled, pressing himself harder into my grip.

“Yes… Never got the chance to meet a compatible female—” Another pause. His eyes squeezed shut. “You are certain you want…”

I never pegged Vennox as being a virgin, and knowing that I would be his first only fueled my desire.

“I cannot think,” he managed words that were rough and fractured, barely strung together. “You have to choose me—,” He swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped barely above a whisper, raw and wrecked. “The choice must be… yours. It cannot be forced. I will not?—”

He shuddered. The tremor ran through his entire body, from his shoulders down through the rigid line of his abdomen as his fingers trembled around my wrist. Not pulling me away, just holding on, like I was the only solid thing in a room that had started spinning.

“I choose you,” I said, and I kept my voice even, conversational, like we were discussing the weather and not the fact that my hand was wrapped around the hardest, hottest piece of male anatomy I’d ever encountered.

My grin surfaced fully. The look on his face was worth every reckless impulse that had gotten me here: that raw, wrecked disbelief, like he couldn’t quite believe the words were real.

I sat up and reached for the waistband of my loose-fitting pants. The fabric was thin, worn soft from weeks of wear. I hooked my thumbs under the band and shoved them down my thighs in one smooth motion. The air in the room was cool against my bareskin, and I felt the intensity of his gaze like a physical weight as I kicked the pants free and tossed them somewhere behind me.

I pushed against his chest, and he rolled to his back. His shoulders met the bunk. His head tilted back, exposing the column of his throat, the ring of scars catching the pale light from his markings.

I swung a leg over and settled across his hips. His eyes went wide. The silver of his irises flared bright enough to cast shadows across his cheekbones, and his hands found my waist, resting there with a reverence that made my chest ache.

“Quin—” His voice cracked on my name.

“Shh.” I pressed a finger to his lips, and his mouth against my skin nearly undid me. “Don’t worry, I’m driving.”

I found the hem of his kilt and eased it up, my fingers trailing along the hard ridges of his thighs, feeling the muscles jump and clench under my touch. The fabric was light, almost insubstantial, and it slid upward without resistance, bunching at his waist as I pushed it higher.