Page 14 of Bound to the Minotaur (Hillcrest Hollow Shifters #2)

Kess

“Are you real?” I asked, my voice rough with sleep, with something darker and sweeter humming just beneath it.

Gregory stared down at me, wet snow still melting in his hair, glittering like stars along the dark waves.

Steam lifted faintly from his shoulders.

His broad frame filled the room, as if it had been carved into the walls.

“Real enough,” he said, his voice a low, familiar growl that stirred something deep inside me. I swallowed hard. Because God, I was wet.

The ache between my thighs hadn’t eased with waking.

If anything, it had sharpened. Made worse by the very real sight of him: boots heavy on the rug, jacket gone, sleeves rolled up, and his coveralls opened along the front.

Bare chest on full display. Tan, taut skin dusted with dark hair.

Muscles layered like something out of myth. Out of dreams.

And still, the dream clung to me like perfume. My lips still tingled from where the beast hadn’t yet kissed me. I could feel it—the echo of need, like a second heartbeat.

I fumbled for my glasses on the side table and slid them on, thinking maybe the clarity would help me snap out of it.

That was a big mistake. Now I could see everything; his collarbone, sharp and perfect; the dip between his pecs; the flex in his biceps as he moved.

There was no shirt beneath the coveralls.

Was there anything beneath them? My mouth went dry.

I licked my lips; I couldn’t help it.

He noticed.

“Gregory,” I whispered, unsure where the courage came from, “kiss me.” If this was still a dream, I wasn’t ready to wake up.

If it wasn’t, I didn’t care. I’d spent all day tiptoeing around the truth—that I wanted him, that I was burning for him, that his gaze across the general store had felt more like a claim than a look.

He didn’t move right away, but his eyes darkened, the pupils blown wide until the warm brown was rimmed with molten amber.

And then... he growled; a sound so low and deep it vibrated through the couch, through me, down to the soles of my feet and up to the tips of my breasts.

A sound that could’ve come from the very beast in my dream.

My heart skipped. My thighs pressed together involuntarily. I was trembling.

In one motion, he reached down and ripped the blanket off me—like it offended him.

The cool air rushed over my overheated skin, and then he prowled forward, coming down onto the couch, his hands braced on either side of me, caging me in against the leather cushions.

“You’re making a mistake,” he said, his voice a husky warning.

His gaze dropped to my mouth. “Don’t taunt me. ”

My breath caught. “What?” I whispered. “Don’t wave a red flag in front of a bull’s face?” That got a reaction. I didn’t know where the comment came from, too many thoughts about bulls and beasts, no doubt.

Something flickered in his eyes; wild, ancient. The amber glowed brighter, lighting him up from within like fire in a lantern. I could feel the heat coming off him now. Could smell him—pine and ozone and something smoky and unmistakably male.

His hand gripped the side of my face, his rough palm cradling my cheek.

Then he kissed me—hard, fierce, and so very possessive.

His mouth crashed over mine like a dam finally breaking, and I was lost. There was nothing but him: his tongue parting my lips, his chest pressing against mine, his hand sliding down to anchor my hip.

My arms wrapped around his neck before I even realized what I was doing.

This wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. This was claiming . And God help me, I kissed him back like I wanted to be devoured .

Gregory’s weight settled over me like he belonged there, like I belonged beneath him.

The heavy warmth of his body, the rough drag of his calloused hand down my side, the heat of his kiss.

God, I wanted him. I wanted his skin on mine, nothing in between.

Every cell in me cried out for it, aching and breathless with need.

My sweater was the first casualty. He pulled it up with a grunt, and I arched into the movement, lifting my arms, offering myself up.

My tank top followed. Then, his hands were at my hips, dragging off my leggings, his fingers searing down my thighs.

I didn’t even realize his boots were gone until his bare foot hooked around my ankle, dragging me closer.

We were shedding clothes like the fire might burn hotter if we were naked, like we had to be bare to survive it.

He wrestled his coveralls off one shoulder, then the other, and when I reached for him, he groaned low in his chest, eyes hungry as he leaned back just long enough to strip the rest of the way.

My breath hitched. My glasses fogged. He reached up with reverent fingers and slipped them gently from my face, setting them aside like they mattered.

Like I mattered. Then he came down on one arm above me, pausing—not hesitating, admiring.

His eyes raked over me, and his cock twitched, rising thick and hard between us.

“Oh, fuck,” I whispered, and he just smiled—a dangerous, beautiful smile.

And then he was on me. His mouth found my breast, his tongue circling, his teeth grazing until I was gasping and clutching his hair.

His palm cupped my other breast as if he already knew what I needed, as if he’d memorized me.

I cried out when he sucked harder, when he bit just enough to make my back bow.

“I—Gregory—” I tried to say something coherent, but it burned up on my tongue when he kissed a path down my belly, nudging my thighs apart with his broad shoulders.

Then he licked me. I choked on a moan. His mouth was hot, insistent, perfect.

His tongue slid against me with filthy precision, like he wanted to taste every part of me, like my pleasure was a thing he worshiped.

His hand gripped my thigh hard enough to bruise as he held me open, his growl sending vibrations straight through my core.

I shattered once under his mouth, gasping his name like a prayer.

He didn’t stop. By the time he moved back up my body, slick and wild-eyed, I was shaking with want, hair stuck to my cheeks, legs trembling.

He kissed me again, and I tasted myself on his tongue—and I didn’t care. I kissed him like I’d die if I didn’t.

And then he pushed into me.

I cried out, the stretch exquisite, every thick inch of him slow and deliberate, making space inside me I hadn’t known existed. My nails scraped down his back, and he groaned against my throat, burying himself to the hilt. We held there for a breathless beat, our hearts thudding in tandem.

Then we moved.

It was fast. Brutal. Desperate. Every thrust knocked the air from my lungs and gave it back in a moan.

He drove into me like I was something he needed, his teeth bared, his brow furrowed with effort.

I met him, hips arching, nails digging in, lost in the rhythm, the fire, the sweat-slick slide of skin.

He cursed softly—again and again. My name. A plea. A promise.

I was spiraling, blinding white heat building at the base of my spine, tension curling tighter and tighter until I thought I might split apart. And right before I did, he cupped my face—fingers strong and trembling—and forced my gaze to his.

“You are mine,” Gregory growled, jaw clenched, voice barely human.

“Mine to protect.” Then I fell, the words pushing me over the edge, and he followed.

We came together, and I felt closer to him than I had ever felt to anyone.

Bound. Like a part of me had come untethered and lodged itself deep inside his chest, and part of him had done the same, tying him to me.

It was a ridiculous thought, but it settled in the back of my mind like a truth I couldn’t shake.

When, after long, trembling moments, he gently picked me up, peeling me from that now-sticky leather couch, I felt precious. His arms were gentle as they carried me from his rustic, cozy living room into his private den, the door slamming shut behind him with a kick of his foot.

His bed, huge and soft, loomed, and I knew this wasn’t over.

When he said I was his—when he said I was making a mistake—he hadn’t been kidding.

He wouldn’t be through with me until he said he was.

Good. My body heated, flushing with want and egging him on again; I clawed at his hair, dragging his mouth to mine. “Yes, Gregory, take me.”