[WARNING! Mild Mature Content ahead!]

===🖤===

Fuck. Me.

Liora’s words struck like a match to dry kindling, setting off a wildfire of desire that roared through both Lyander and his wolf.

A shudder racked his wolf’s powerful frame, not from fear or chill—but from sheer, blistering need.

Her hands followed next, small but firm, gliding deliberately over his body in slow, claiming strokes. She began with his shoulders, smoothing her fingers over thick cords of muscle, then continued down his back—her touch steady, reverent, and emboldened by curiosity.

Each sweep sent his muscles flexing beneath her hands, drawing tight with anticipation, then easing as she passed, like waves responding to the moon’s pull.

It felt like heaven. No—better. His wolf nearly rumbled with pleasure, the sound deep in his chest like a pleased purr held back by pride.

She didn’t rush.

From one section to the next, Liora explored him with a deliberate curiosity, a quiet kind of worship.

Occasionally, she lingered on certain spots—testing reactions, noting where his body trembled under her fingertips. When she crouched down to reach his belly and legs, her touch remained thorough, methodical, and maddeningly gentle.

True to her word, she mapped every inch of him . . .

Except one.

She skipped over his groin—though not without a glance. And the absence of her touch there was nearly as maddening as her earlier teasing.

His cock twitched, hard and aching.

He wasn’t the only one. His wolf burned with the same need, growling low in his mind.

He wanted her. Naked. Now.

And so did Lyander.

His cock pulsed in the space between them, throbbing with hunger, restrained only by the thinnest thread of control.

When she finally stood and stepped back, admiring her own handiwork with a pleased little smile, Lyander’s wolf trembled beneath the aftershock of her hands.

But he wasn’t about to let the game end there.

Not when the beast was just waking up.

Lyander’s voice dropped into something deeper, darker—an Alpha’s command. "Strip."

Her eyes widened, startled by the sheer power behind the single word. A pulse of submission fluttered through her, but she didn’t look away.

She obeyed.

One by one, her clothes fell to the floor. There were no words, only the slow, delicious sound of fabric sliding off skin. She turned slightly when she pushed her jeans down, wiggling her hips with innocent mischief, clearly aware of the effect it had on them.

Lyander groaned, a harsh, guttural sound of restraint.

If she kept doing that, he’d take her. Right here. Hard and fast, with his teeth in her neck.

His wolf snarled in agreement, ready to mark. Ready to mate.

But Lyander couldn’t allow that—not yet. He had to stay in control, had to keep the beast from crossing a line they couldn’t uncross.

Just as she reached for her final piece of clothing, he snapped, "Stop."

She froze in place, breath catching in her throat.

He stepped closer, lowering his head until his nose brushed the crook of her neck. Inhaled deeply, savoring the scent that was uniquely hers—sweet, warm, and driving him mad.

"My turn," he growled against her skin.

Liora didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Her body vibrated with anticipation.

She’d heard the warning before. Lyander had told her his wolf wanted her in every way a male could want a mate. He hadn’t exaggerated.

Still, she stood her ground. Not with arrogance—but with intent. She wanted this.

She wanted him.

Lyander took a slow step back and stared at her, letting her see the full force of what stood before her.

His wolf was no longer merely present—he was dominant, poised, majestic.

Tall and broad, with ears flicked forward and tail high, his body radiated power. His chest heaved with every breath, the sheer pressure of his presence enough to command a room full of wolves to bow low in submission.

He was a king—undeniably, irrevocably.

The kind of creature that bent the world around him with his will alone.

And yet . . .

Liora didn’t cower.

She didn’t drop her gaze or shrink from the overwhelming power pulsing from him in waves.

Instead, she straightened her spine, shivering—not in fear, but in raw anticipation. She didn’t want to run.

She wanted to be devoured.

Lyander saw it in her eyes—that unwavering flame.

His wolf did too.

And he knew, without a doubt, that this little human wasn’t just his to protect.

She was his to claim.

In that moment, Liora understood exactly what Lyander’s wolf wanted from her.

Obedience.

Not submission through fear—but a quiet yielding. A willingness to be seen. To offer herself up for his gaze alone, and to remain still, patient, and present while he inspected what now belonged to him.

His eyes, blazing and unreadable, began their descent—starting at her face, lingering there before drifting lower. Over her throat. Her chest. Pausing at her breasts before sliding down to her stomach, then further still, to the soft, vulnerable place between her thighs. And finally, all the way to her toes, which tingled beneath his silent attention.

She quivered beneath the weight of it.

His stare wasn’t passive—it was physical. She felt it like a touch, as if his gaze itself was trailing fingers over her body, grazing her skin, brushing each curve and hollow like a lover’s caress.

Then, another command came—not spoken, but clear as day.

"Turn."

Liora’s breath hitched. Slowly, she pivoted until her back was to him, her chest rising and falling as the silence stretched on. Behind her, Lyander’s wolf pulsed with tightly-coiled need. She could feel it in the air between them—charged, feral, focused entirely on her.

Time dragged.

She had no way of knowing what he would do, or when. Every second he remained still only deepened her awareness of her own body—of how bare she was, how exposed, how seen. The tension tightened around her like a string pulled taut.

Still, he said nothing.

Only a low, rumbling sound escaped his chest—a deep, resonant hum of approval.

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