Then another. Slow and thorough, as if he was trying to memorize her taste the way he’d memorized her scent. As if she was a language he needed to learn fluently.
He’s trying to get closer than skin allows.
The thought gutted her. Because it was true—she could feel it in the desperate way he pressed himself between her thighs, inthe greedy sounds he made, in the way his claws flexed against the furs like he was fighting for control.
This wasn’t just pleasure for him. This wasneed. The same need he’d confessed earlier, raw and ugly and impossible to deny.
His mouth sealed over her properly—not just tongue now but lips, heat, suction—and Elsa’s grip tightened in his fur until her knuckles ached.
He murmured something against her. The words vibrated through her core, and the translator implant caught only fragments: “Sweet.” Half praise. Half prayer. A devotion spoken in the language of touch.
Sylas spread her wider with his hands, thumbs gentle despite their size, claws turned carefully away. The control in the gesture made her chest ache. He could hurt her so easily. Could take without asking, dominate without restraint. Instead, he handled her like she was something precious. Something he couldn’t bear to break.
His tongue returned to its work, alternating patterns that kept her constantly off-balance.
Broad, slow licks that made her melt into the bed.
Then smaller, focused strokes exactly where she needed them most.
Her thoughts fragmented. She tried to stay angry—at him, at herself, at the impossible situation that had led her here. Tried to hold onto the caution that had kept her alive through the crash and the captivity and everything after.
Her body refused.
Her hips started answering his rhythm, rolling in small desperate movements she couldn’t control. Each stroke of his tongue drew her further from reason, further from the navigator who mapped stars and calculated trajectories. Here, in his nest,wrapped in his furs and his scent and the heat of his mouth, she was justElsa.
Just his.
His palm pressed flat against her lower belly—warm, possessive, grounding. Anchoring her to the bed and to him at the same time. The weight of it made something shift in her chest. Like he wasn’t just chasing her pleasure but making sure she stayedpresentfor it.
Don’t float away. Stay here. With me.
The unspoken command threaded through her veins like warmth.
Sylas shifted position, crawling closer until his chest pressed against her thigh and hip. Closing the space between them until she was wrapped in him—his fur brushing her skin with every breath, his bulk surrounding her like a wall of heat and muscle and barely leashed power.
She inhaled.
His scent hit her like a blow: smoke and frost and something wild, something that spoke to ancient parts of her brain she didn’t know how to name. The mix of it tangled with her own arousal until she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began.
He’s doing it on purpose.
The realization surfaced through the haze of pleasure. Mixing scents. Making her associate safety and pleasure withhim. Training her body to crave his presence the way her lungs craved air.
She wanted to protest. Wanted to point out the manipulation, the careful campaign he was waging against her resistance.
Instead, his name slipped from her lips like a mistake she was making willingly.
“Sylas.”
His answering rumble vibrated through her entire body.
He found a rhythm—steady enough to build, varied enough to keep her constantly on edge. Each stroke pushed her higher, tighter, closer to something that felt like falling and flying at once.
Her hands slid from his fur to his shoulders, fingers digging into muscle that didn’t yield. She gripped. She tugged. She tried to pull him closer—impossible, he was already as close as physics allowed, and that made her frantic.
More. Closer. Please.
His tongue pressed deeper.