Page 25 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

LIANA

I’ve never been a roots kind of girl. My life has been a series of takeoffs and landings, never staying in one place long enough for the soil to remember the shape of my feet.

Manila to New York to Virginia, each move fueled by restlessness, by the persistent itch under my skin that whispered, “Not yet. Not here. Keep going.”

But now, watching the morning light filter through Roarke’s bedroom window, his massive arm draped over my waist, his breath warm against my neck, I realize the itch has gone silent. For the first time in my life, I’m not planning my next escape route. I’m planning to stay.

It’s been three weeks since I told Roarke I loved him, three weeks since he carried me to bed and showed me exactly what that territorial instinct of his meant in the most delicious ways possible. Three weeks of a new routine that somehow feels like it’s always been this way.

My days still belong to my homestead. I wake with the sun, slip out from under Roarke’s protective embrace—not an easy feat considering he tends to growl and pull me back against him—and make the short walk back to my house.

My house. It’s still mine, still the space where I work and bake and tend to my growing menagerie. But it’s no longer where I sleep.

Today follows the familiar pattern. I check on the chickens first, making sure the coop door is secure after letting them out to free-range.

Chestnut gives me her usual unimpressed side-eye as I scatter feed, as if to say, “You’re late, and I know exactly what kept you.

” Buttercup, more forgiving, clucks happily around my ankles.

“Yes, yes, I know,” I tell them, running a gentle finger down Marigold’s back. “Mommy got distracted. Again.”

They don’t need to know that the “distraction” involved Roarke’s mouth between my thighs at 5 AM, his golden eyes watching me fall apart as the first rays of dawn crept through the window. Some things are between a woman and her lion-man.

With the chickens sorted, I head inside to my makeshift office.

Three client meetings, two UX proposals to finish, and a prototype to troubleshoot.

Corporate America continues to turn, oblivious to the fact that the woman designing their sleek interfaces is doing so with flour in her hair and dragon scales stuck to her socks.

Speaking of dragons—a thunderous crash from outside tells me Nugget is awake.

I peer through the window to see him stretched to his full, impressive length in the yard, wings extended as he soaks up the morning sun.

He’s the size of a small horse now, his sapphire scales gleaming with iridescent beauty in the light.

The comparison to the tiny creature that hatched in my hands just months ago is almost impossible to believe.

“Morning, baby boy!” I call, stepping onto the porch.

Nugget’s head swivels toward me, and his entire body follows with puppy-like enthusiasm that belies his increasingly massive size.

He bounds over, remembering at the last second to slow his approach so he doesn’t knock me flat.

His snout nudges my stomach gently, a soft chirrup of greeting vibrating through him.

“I know, I know,” I soothe, scratching under his chin where the scales are softest. “You’re hungry. Let me guess—you want fish?”

He makes a happy rumbling sound that’s answer enough. Ever since Roarke discovered he could fish in the lake on the edge of town, Nugget has developed an obsessive preference for rainbow trout. I still find it hilarious that my dragon son has a more sophisticated palate than I do.

The day passes in its usual productive chaos.

I alternate between work calls, bread-making (three trays of pandesal for both Roarke and Nugget, and a batch of ube cookies), and periodic checks on Nugget, who has appointed himself official chicken guardian.

The sight of five small hens perched along his spine while he stands sentry never gets old.

As evening approaches, I catch myself glancing more frequently at the path leading to Roarke’s house.

The anticipation building in my belly has nothing to do with hunger—at least not for food.

I know he’ll be home soon, his clinic closing at six except for emergencies.

I know exactly what will happen when he walks through the door, how his eyes will find mine across the room, how the air between us will crackle with electricity.

When I finally pack up my laptop and head over, the sun is setting, painting Harmony Glen in shades of amber and gold.

Nugget follows me partway, then diverts to the lake for his evening swim.

He’ll join us later, letting himself into Roarke’s house through the special dragon door (yes, that’s a thing now) to curl up in the reinforced corner of the living room that’s become his sleeping spot.

Roarke is already home when I arrive, his massive frame silhouetted against the kitchen window.

I pause for a moment, just watching him.

He moves with such precise efficiency, those huge hands surprisingly delicate as they prepare dinner.

He’s shirtless, the golden fur of his back catching the light, and my mouth goes dry at the sight.

“I can smell you standing there,” he says without turning around. “You’re letting the cool air in.”

I laugh, stepping inside and closing the door behind me. “Creepy, yet somehow still sexy.”

He turns then, and the look in his eyes makes my knees weak. Hunger. Possession. Love. All wrapped up in molten gold.

“You’re early,” he observes, moving toward me with predatory grace. “And you smell like bread.”

“I made extra. For Mrs. Henderson. She’s watching Nugget tomorrow while we?—”

His mouth covers mine, cutting off my explanation. I melt into him, my body recognizing its match, its home. His hands slide to my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the counter so we’re at eye level.

“You’ve been keeping a good schedule this week,” he murmurs against my lips. “Even went to bed before midnight twice.”

“Do I get a gold star?” I tease, though my voice is breathier than intended.

His answering smirk is downright sinful. “Something better.”

He kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue claiming my mouth with possessive intent. His hands slide up my thighs, pushing my dress higher, and I part my legs instinctively to make room for him between them.

“Dinner will get cold,” I warn halfheartedly as his mouth moves to my neck.

“I’ll reheat it.” His claws carefully extend, hooking into the waistband of my underwear. With a precise twist of his wrist, the fabric tears away completely.

I should probably be upset about the destruction of perfectly good panties, but the growl that rumbles through his chest when he discovers I’m already wet for him sends a spike of arousal so sharp through me that I can’t bring myself to care.

“Always so ready for me,” he says, his voice dropping to that register that makes my toes curl in anticipation.

His fingers find me first, exploring with maddening precision, learning me all over again as if we haven’t been doing this every night (and most mornings) for weeks. When his thumb circles my clit, I have to grab his shoulders to keep from falling backward.

“Roarke,” I gasp, my head falling back as he slides one thick finger inside me. “Please.”

“Please what?” he asks, adding a second finger, stretching me deliciously.

“I need your mouth,” I admit, shameless in my want. “Please.”

He doesn’t make me beg further. In one fluid movement, he lifts me from the counter and carries me to the couch, depositing me with surprising gentleness before kneeling between my spread thighs.

The first touch of his tongue against my center makes me cry out, my back arching off the cushions. He holds my hips steady with his massive hands, his mouth working me with devastating skill.

My toes curl when he goes in again, ravenous, this time insatiable, French-kissing my cunt and sucking on my juices as his tongue slithers into my hole, so deep.

I’m seeing stars and I thrash and I’m crying out as though in pain.

But it’s so good, so fucking good. I’m losing the threads of my thoughts and I’m terrified I’ll soon forget my name.

When I come, it’s with his name on my lips, my hands fisted in his mane, my body convulsing with pleasure so intense it borders on pain. He works me through it, gentling his touch as I come down, until I’m boneless and gasping.

“Who knew,” I pant when I can speak again, “that all it would take to fix my insomnia was multiple orgasms?”

Roarke chuckles against my inner thigh, placing one last kiss there before rising to his full height. “I’ve been telling you for weeks. Proper incentives are key to behavioral change.”

“Is that the veterinarian in you talking?” I tease, sitting up to reach for his belt. “Treating me like one of your patients?”

His eyes darken, and he captures my hands in his. “You are nothing like my patients, Liana.” The way he says my name, like it’s something precious, sends a shiver down my spine. “You are mine in a way nothing and no one else has ever been.”

Later, much later, when we’re tangled together in his bed—our bed—I trace patterns in the fur of his chest and think about roots. About how they grow slowly, invisibly, anchoring you to a place so gradually you don’t notice until one day, you realize you can’t imagine being anywhere else.

“What are you thinking about?” Roarke asks, his voice a low rumble in the darkness.

I smile against his skin. “Home,” I tell him honestly. “I’m thinking about home.”

His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer to his side where I fit perfectly. “Good,” he says simply. “Because you are.”

And for the first time in my life, I believe it. I am home. Here, in this strange, magical town. Here, with my dragon son and my chicken daughters. Here, with this man who loves every chaotic, impulsive, baking-at-3AM part of me.

I am finally, wonderfully, home.