Page 34

NICHOLAS

T he air hung thick with pine and spent magic as Nicholas pressed Sylvie against the ancient oak.

Her back arched into him, her wavy blonde hair catching the moonlight like frayed gold thread.

The night buzzed, vibrating with old spells and something far older—the pulse of instinct claiming what was his.

His tiger purred low, deep in his chest, pacing just beneath his skin as Sylvie gripped the back of his neck and bit his lower lip—hard. Challenge and surrender all in one.

“Still think candle witches and tigers don’t mix?” he asked, trailing the tip of a claw—blunted but threatening—down her side, careful not to tear the lace-edged tank top she wore.

Her breath hitched as he found that sensitive hollow just above her hip bone. “Says the man who literally growled when I unbuttoned my skirt.”

“You dumped wolfsbane in my coffee last month,” he murmured, nosing along the arch of her collarbone, inhaling cedar and the sharp, electric tang of her arousal. “Forgive me for savoring the moment you finally want me closer than ten feet.”

Her nails slid beneath his ruined shirt, scratching across the hard planes of his abdomen. His cock twitched, already thick and aching beneath his jeans. “Less talking. More proving this isn’t just your inner beast riding a high.”

The heat between them surged. He crushed his mouth to hers, tongue sweeping in, claiming her gasp.

His thigh slid between hers, pressing up until her pussy ground against him through the thin fabric of her panties.

The skirt’s hem bunched in his grip. He yanked it higher, baring the pale skin of her thighs to the moonlight.

Her legs wrapped around his hips, her body arching for more.

“You taste like cloves and wildfire,” he growled into her throat, fingers slipping beneath the edge of her panties. His touch found her slick and pulsing. “Even your pussy’s plotting chaos.”

She rocked into his hand with a broken laugh. “Says—ah—the walking furnace with a cock twitching like it has something to prove.”

He chuckled darkly and, with a quick flick of his claw, tore the lace barrier in half. “Careful,” he warned, nipping at her jaw. “Shifters bite when teased.”

Her hand fisted in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him groan. “Show me.”

The command unraveled him.

He dropped to his knees in the moss, spreading her thighs open against the bark.

Her skin glowed in the moonlight, every inch flushed and kissed by ash and starlight.

He pressed his mouth to the crease of her thigh, breathing in the wild scent of her arousal—earth, heat, and magic.

His tongue found her folds, sliding through wet silk as she gasped and clutched his shoulders.

“Gods, Nicholas…” she panted, hips jerking when his mouth sealed around her clit. “Don’t stop. Don’t even think about stopping.”

He didn’t. He licked and sucked until her thighs quaked against his ears, her moans scattering into the night air like sparks. Her magic responded—candle-like heat building around them, curling through the woods like wildfire kept just barely at bay.

When she came, it wasn’t quiet. Her stormy voice broke against the trees, and he felt it—not just the clench of her pussy, but the wave of power cresting over him, sinking into his bones.

Before the last shiver left her, he was back on his feet, pinning her to the oak. Her wrists pressed above her head, held in one of his hands. The other gripped her thigh, lifting her as he ground the thick length of his cock against her soaked entrance.

“Still scared I’ll break you?” he rasped, dragging his tongue up the slope of her breast before sucking her nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue as she arched into him.

“Terrified,” she whispered, her hips rolling. Her cunt slick and ready, spreading heat across his cock like fire. “But break with me anyway.”

That was it.

With a low snarl, he drove into her—hard. A single, brutal thrust that buried him to the hilt. Her head snapped back against the tree, eyes wide and mouth open in a cry that echoed through the woods. Her pussy clenched tight around him, welcoming him, daring him to move.

“Fuck, Sylvie,” he growled, voice ragged. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

“Then don’t stop,” she gasped. “Wreck me, Whitmore.”

He pulled back and slammed into her again, over and over, each thrust shaking the ground beneath them. The bark dug into his hands, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered but the heat of her wrapped around him, the slick slide of her walls clenching his cock like a spell meant just for him.

Magic snapped and sparked between them—real, ancient, volatile. Candles would’ve exploded if they were anywhere near a wick.

“Look at you,” he snarled, fangs flashing. “Taking every inch. Worshipping this bond you swore you didn’t want.”

Her answer was a cry that vibrated through them both. She tightened her legs around him, heels digging into the base of his spine, pulling him deeper. “Yours,” she moaned, voice wrecked. “Yours because I say so.”

The tiger inside him roared in triumph, demanding claim.

His right hand shifted—claws erupting in a flash of golden light. He scored a mark down the curve of her hip, just shallow enough to sting, just deep enough to claim. Sylvie screamed, her back arching away from the tree, golden light blazing from the wound as it sealed itself in fire.

Their bond flared—a mirror brand seared across Nicholas’s side. He growled through clenched teeth, driving into her one last time as they both shattered.

Her pussy spasmed around him, milking his cock as he spilled deep inside her, his roar swallowed by her lips as she pulled him into a final, desperate kiss.

They collapsed together into the moss and fern, tangled limbs sticky with sweat and sex and something far older than either of them. Nicholas rested his forehead against hers, still inside her, their bodies buzzing with magic.

Her fingertips traced the claw mark on her hip, now glowing faintly. “So,” she breathed. “Still think you’re walking away from this?”

His smile was lazy, sated. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

She rolled her eyes—but didn’t let go.

The tiger inside him purred.

He belonged now. Not just claimed—but chosen. For once, Nicholas Whitmore wasn’t afraid of that word.