Page 87 of The Hyena’s Guardian

Theron’s mouth curved softly. “You’ve never been asked.”

“It’s not that.” Matt’s thumb traced the inside of Theron’s wrist. “I mean, yes, that. But also I don’t know what I’m allowed to want. Here. With you.”

“Anything.” The word came simple and immediate. “Anything you want. Anything you need. Tell me, and it’s yours.”

Matt’s chest rose sharply beneath Theron’s palm.

“I need you to touch me,” Matt said. Then, quieter, “I need to know what it feels like when someone who wants me touches me. All of me. Not just the parts that get me off.”

Theron’s eyes went dark, not with hunger alone, but with understanding. He nodded once, slow, and his hand moved from Matt’s stomach to his chest, palm flat over his heart.

“Lie still,” Theron said. “Let me show you.”

Matt obeyed, settling deeper into the sand, letting his arms fall to his sides. The cave ceiling stretched above him, rough stone catching the dim light, and then Theron’s face blocked it out as he leaned over him, one hand braced beside his head.

Theron did not kiss him first. Instead, his free hand found Matt’s shoulder and traced the curve of muscle and bone. His fingers mapped the landscape of Matt’s body with a reverence that made the moment feel less like hunger and more like devotion.

The hollow of his collarbone. The dip beneath his clavicle. The ridge of his chest where muscle met shadow. Each touch was slow and deliberate, as though Theron was memorizing him by feel.

Matt’s eyes fluttered closed. The world narrowed until only the cave, the grit of sand beneath him, and Theron’s hands learning his body by heart remained.

“You’re beautiful,” Theron murmured again, softer this time.

Matt’s lips parted. No sound came out.

Theron’s hand traveled lower, tracing the ladder of his ribs, the soft dip of his waist, the flare of his hip. His thumb circled lower, then drifted through the trail of hair beneath Matt’s navel.

When he touched him again, it was gentle and steady. Matt’s whole body responded, a shiver that ran through him beneath Theron’s hand. Theron did not rush. He watched Matt’s face.

“Is this okay?”

Matt nodded, his voice gone somewhere he could not reach.

Theron’s thumb swept across him once, barely a touch, and Matt’s hips lifted into it with a desperate little motion he could not stop. Theron’s mouth curved.

“You feel everything,” he said softly. “I like that.”

Matt forced words out. “You’re—” He swallowed. “You’re being very thorough.”

“I told you.” Theron’s hand moved again, slow strokes that built a rhythm without urgency. “I’m going to take my time.”

Matt’s head pressed back into the sand. His hands found Theron’s hips, gripping the jut of bone, holding on as Theron worked him with that same unbearable patience. Pleasure built in waves, each motion sending heat through him, but Theron kept the pace steady, never rushing toward the edge, only staying present and learning him.

“I want to hear you,” Theron said. His voice was low, intimate, as though they were the only two people in the world. “I want to know what sounds you make when you let go.”

Matt’s breath stuttered. “Theron.”

“Say my name again.”

“Theron.”

Theron’s hand tightened, and the rhythm shifted, faster now, each stroke sending Matt closer to the edge. Matt’s hands gripped tighter, his hips rising to meet each motion, the sand cool beneath him and Theron’s body warm above him.

“Come for me,” Theron said. “I’ve got you. Let go.”

Matt did.

Theron watched him break apart beneath him, watched pleasure roll through his body and leave him breathless against the sand. He worked him through it, steady and gentle, until the shudders faded and Matt collapsed back, chest heaving, eyes open to the cave’s shadowed ceiling.