Page 63 of Moist!

chapter seven

LENA

Thorne’s apartment is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined all at once.

As he leads me through the door, his hand warm and steady against the small of my back, I take in the clean lines, the minimalist furniture, the complete and utter absence of clutter.

It’s so him—practical, purposeful, nothing frivolous or unnecessary.

Yet there’s beauty in the simplicity, in the carefully selected pieces that speak of craftsmanship and patience. Just like the man himself.

The space is massive—high ceilings to accommodate his height, wide doorways for his broad shoulders. Everything is scaled slightly larger than standard, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels right. Balanced.

“You can stop analyzing my furniture,” he rumbles behind me, his breath warm against my ear.

I turn, grinning up at him. “Can’t help it. Professional curiosity. A baker studies a baker’s kitchen, a furniture maker’s apartment is fair game.”

His mouth twitches. “And?”

“It’s very...” I search for a word that won’t sound like an insult, “... tidy.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Unlike your flour explosion of a bakery?”

“Hey, creative chaos is a legitimate aesthetic,” I protest, stepping further into the room. The living area opens up to a kitchen that’s surprisingly well-equipped. Lots of counter space. Professional-grade appliances. A knife block with handles worn from use.

Then I notice something else.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply. “Wow, you can really smell the bakery in here.”

When I open them, Thorne is watching me, his expression guarded.

“You’ve been a constant temptation,” he says, his voice dropping to that low rumble that makes my skin tingle. “Walking around smelling like sugar and spice, bringing me food, invading my space with your...everything.”

I step closer to him, drawn by the intensity in his eyes. “Your everything isn’t so bad either.”

His hands find my waist, large and warm and steady. “I’ve been fighting this for months.”

“Why?” I whisper, sliding my palms up his chest.

“Because I’m your landlord,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it. “Because I’m a Minotaur. Because you’re?—”

“Perfect for you?” I suggest, rising onto my tiptoes.

He makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan. “Impossible. You’re impossible.”

“Yet here we are,” I murmur against his lips.

And then we’re kissing again, but this time it’s different. Before, it was all surprise and sudden heat. Now, there’s purpose. Intent. His mouth moves over mine with deliberate pressure, his tongue sliding against my lower lip, seeking entrance that I eagerly grant.

One of his hands moves to cup the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair, while the other slides lower, over the curve of my hip, pulling me closer until I’m pressed fully against him.

I can feel the hard planes of his chest, the barely contained strength in his arms, and lower—the unmistakable evidence of his desire.

I gasp against his mouth as he lifts me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me from the kitchen through the living room and down a hallway.

His bedroom is like the rest of his apartment—spacious, uncluttered, dominated by a massive bed with simple, high-quality linens. He sets me down at the foot of it, his hands lingering at my waist.

“We don’t have to—” he starts, and I press my fingers to his lips.

“I want this,” I say, holding his gaze. “I want you.”

Something flares in his dark eyes—heat, hunger, relief. He leans down, pressing his forehead to mine, the base of his horns warm against my skin.

“I’m not...” He pauses, searching for words. “I’m larger than human men. In every way.”

I smile, trailing my hand down his chest, over the hard ridges of his abdomen, lower still. “I’m counting on it.”

He groans, a deep, primal sound that vibrates through me.

Then his mouth is on mine again, more urgent now, his hands moving to the hem of my shirt, tugging it upward.

I raise my arms, helping him, and then my shirt is gone, tossed aside.

His gaze drops to my simple cotton bra, and I resist the urge to cover myself.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of the fabric with one finger. The touch is so light, so careful, a stark contrast to his size. It makes something in my chest twist with longing.

I reach for the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly in my eagerness. He helps me, shrugging it off to reveal a broad expanse of tanned skin stretched over defined muscle. My mouth goes dry at the sight of him.

“Can I touch you?” I ask, already reaching.

His response is to take my hand and place it directly over his heart.

I can feel it hammering beneath my palm, proof that he’s as affected as I am.

I explore him slowly, tracing the contours of his chest, the dips and valleys of his abdomen, the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his waistband.

When I reach for his belt, his hands cover mine, stilling them.

“Let me take care of you first,” he says, his voice rough with want.

Before I can protest, he’s turning me, finding the zipper of my skirt and drawing it down with tantalizing slowness. The fabric pools at my feet, leaving me in just my underwear. I step out of the skirt, kicking it aside, and turn to face him again.

His eyes darken as they sweep over me. “I’ve imagined this,” he admits. “Too many times.”

“Show me,” I challenge, emboldened by the raw desire in his gaze.

He sinks to his knees before me—a massive, powerful Minotaur on his knees for me—and the sight alone is almost enough to undo me. He hooks his fingers in the elastic of my underwear, looking up at me for permission. I nod, and he slides them down my legs, his breath warm against my skin.

“Lay back,” he instructs, and I do, scooting up onto the bed, my heart hammering as he follows.

He starts at my ankles, pressing kisses to the delicate bones there, then works his way up my calves, the backs of my knees, my thighs. Each touch is reverent, worshipful. By the time he reaches the apex of my thighs, I’m trembling.

“Please,” I whisper, not even knowing what I’m begging for.

He smiles against my skin, his horns brushing my inner thighs as he settles between them. “I’ve got you.”

The first touch of his tongue against my center tears a gasp from my throat.

He’s methodical here too, exploring with broad strokes and precise flicks, learning what makes me writhe and what makes me moan.

When he finds a particularly sensitive spot, he focuses there, circling his tongue with maddening precision.

My hands find his horns, gripping them for purchase as pleasure builds within me. The texture is smooth, warm, alive. I feel him groan against me at the contact, the vibration adding to the sensation.

“Yes,” he growls, encouraging. “Hold onto them.”

I tighten my grip, and he rewards me by slipping a finger inside me, curling it in a way that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. He adds a second, stretching me gently, preparing me, all while his tongue continues its relentless attention to my clit.

The pressure builds and builds until I’m teetering on the edge, my thighs trembling, my breath coming in short gasps. And then he sucks—just the right pressure, just the right moment—and I’m falling, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me.

He works me through it, gentling his touch as I become sensitive, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs as I catch my breath. When I finally open my eyes, he’s watching me with a mix of satisfaction and barely contained desire.

“Come here,” I murmur, tugging weakly at his shoulders.

He moves up my body, his weight supported on his forearms as he hovers over me. I reach for him, pulling him down for a kiss that tastes of me and him and hunger.

“I want to touch you,” I say against his mouth. “Let me.”

He shifts, rolling onto his back, and I take the opportunity to explore. His chest is a marvel—broad and defined, dusted with dark hair that narrows to a trail leading to the waistband of his pants. I follow it with my fingers, then my lips, feeling his muscles jump beneath my touch.

When I reach his belt, I look up at him for permission. He nods, his eyes never leaving mine as I unbuckle it and slowly lower his zipper. He lifts his hips, helping me remove his pants and boxers in one go.

And then he’s bare before me, gloriously naked and undeniably not human. He’s larger than any man I’ve ever been with, thick and long, the head of his cock flushed dark with arousal. A bead of moisture gathers at the tip, and without thinking, I lean down to taste it .

His whole body jerks, a harsh breath escaping him. “Lena?—”

I take him into my mouth as far as I can, which isn’t very far given his size, but I make up for it with enthusiasm and the use of my hands. His taste is intoxicating—musky, slightly sweet, addictive.

His hands find my hair, not pushing, just holding, as if he needs something to anchor himself. I work him slowly, learning what makes his breath hitch, what draws those deep groans from his chest.

When his hips start to move restlessly, he tugs gently at my hair. “Stop,” he rasps. “Or this will be over too soon.”

I release him with a final lick, smiling at his groan. He pulls me up his body, capturing my mouth in a kiss that steals my breath.

“Turn over,” he murmurs against my lips. “On your hands and knees.”

A thrill runs through me at the command. I comply, positioning myself as he asks, feeling exposed and vulnerable and incredibly aroused.

The bed shifts as he moves behind me. I hear the sound of a drawer opening, then closing. When his hands return to my body, they’re slick with something cool and viscous.

“Relax,” he says, his voice a soothing rumble as one finger circles my entrance, spreading the lubricant generously. “I’ll go slow.”