Page 27 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)
ROARKE
The movie plays on, but I stopped paying attention twenty minutes ago.
All I can focus on is Liana—her scent filling my living room, her body curled against mine on the couch, her fingers absently stroking the fur on my forearm.
This is the first night she’s officially living here, her boxes stacked in neat piles I organized while she chaotically unpacked what she deemed “essentials.”
The significance of it settles in my chest like a physical weight. She’s here. Mine. In my space. In my home.
But not yet fully bonded in the way my body craves with an intensity that shocks even me.
She shifts against me, and her scent changes subtly—the warm bread and cinnamon notes deepening, gaining an edge of honey and salt that signals her arousal. My nostrils flare, taking it in, and my body responds instantly, a low rumble building in my chest without conscious permission.
“You’re not watching the movie either, are you?” she murmurs, tilting her head to look up at me with those dark eyes that see too much.
“No,” I admit, not bothering to hide the roughness in my voice.
Her lips curve into that smile that always unravels me—half mischief, half invitation. “What are you thinking about, then?”
Instead of answering, I slide my hand into her hair, cradling the back of her head as I lean down to capture her mouth. She responds immediately, melting against me with a small sound that sends heat spiraling through my core.
The kiss deepens, my tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opens for me.
She tastes like the sweet wine she’s been sipping, like the chocolate-covered strawberries she insisted were essential movie-watching fare. But underneath those flavors is her—just her—and I could drown in it.
My hand tightens in her hair, tilting her head to give me better access. Her fingers clutch at my shoulders, nails digging into fur and skin, and the slight sting only intensifies my desire. The movie drones on, forgotten background noise as we devour each other on the couch.
When she pulls back to breathe, her cheeks are flushed, her pupils dilated. “Maybe we should pause the movie,” she suggests, voice husky.
I reach for the remote without looking, hitting buttons until the screen goes dark. I don’t care if it’s paused or turned off entirely. Nothing matters except getting her beneath me, around me, taking all of me.
She surprises me, though, sliding from my grasp to stand before me.
Her gaze never leaves mine as she reaches for the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head in one fluid motion.
The simple gray cotton falls to the floor, forgotten, as she stands there in just her bra and those soft sleep pants that hang low on her hips.
“You’re staring,” she says, but there’s no self-consciousness in her voice—only a pleased confidence that makes my cock throb.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, because it’s true and because I know how it affects her when I speak plainly.
The flush on her cheeks deepens, spreads down her neck to her chest. She reaches behind her back, unhooking her bra and letting it join her shirt on the floor.
Her breasts are perfect—fuller than when I first met her, her body responding to the steady meals I ensure she eats, the rest I make sure she gets.
I want to mark them, to taste them, to watch them bounce as she rides me.
As if reading my thoughts, she hooks her thumbs into her pants and pushes them down her hips, taking her underwear with them. She steps out of the pooled fabric, now gloriously, completely naked, her scent filling the room with a potency that makes my mouth water.
“Your turn,” she says, her gaze dropping pointedly to my sweatpants where my erection strains against the fabric.
I stand, towering over her in a way that once made her nervous but now only seems to excite her. I strip quickly, efficiently, not bothering with a show. When I’m naked, her eyes roam over me hungrily, lingering on my cock—fully erect, proportional to my size, intimidating to most but never to her.
“Come here,” I growl, sinking back onto the couch and reaching for her.
But again, she surprises me. Instead of coming into my arms, she places her hands on my shoulders and pushes me back against the cushions. Then she straddles me, her knees on either side of my hips, her hot center hovering just above where I need her most.
“I want to ride you,” she says, her voice a mixture of command and question.
I answer by gripping her hips, my hands nearly spanning her entire waist, and pulling her down to rub against my length. She’s already wet—so wet—her slick heat gliding along my shaft and coating me in her essence.
“Fuck,” I hiss, fighting the urge to thrust up into her. “You’re soaked.”
“For you,” she breathes, rolling her hips in a way that makes my vision blur. “Always for you.”
She reaches between us, wrapping her small hand around my cock, positioning me at her entrance.
Our eyes lock as she slowly, torturously sinks down, taking me inch by agonizing inch.
Her breath catches, her inner walls stretching to accommodate my size, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from thrusting up into her heat.
When she’s fully seated, my cock buried to the hilt inside her, we both pause, breathing hard. Her inner muscles flutter around me, adjusting, squeezing in pulses that threaten my control.
“You feel so good,” she whispers, leaning forward to rest her forehead against mine. “So full. So deep.”
I slide my hands up her sides, over her ribs, to cup her breasts. Her nipples harden against my palms, and I roll them between my fingers, making her gasp and clench around me. The sensation nearly undoes me.
“Move,” I command, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. “Ride me.”
She does, lifting herself until only the head of my cock remains inside her, then sliding back down with agonizing slowness. Again and again, she sets a pace designed to drive me mad—slow, torturous rises followed by sudden, sharp descents that have me seeing stars.
Her hot, tight channel grips me like a fist, slick walls rippling around my length with every movement. I can feel every ridge, every texture of her inner flesh as she slides up and down my shaft. It’s maddening, perfect, not enough and too much all at once.
“Liana,” I growl, my hands returning to her hips to guide her movements, to increase the pace. “Faster.”
She complies, her rhythm quickening, her breath coming in short, sharp pants.
Her breasts bounce with each movement, a hypnotic sight that has me leaning forward to capture one nipple between my lips.
I suck hard, then soothe the sting with gentle flicks of my tongue.
She cries out, her inner walls clenching around me in response.
The base of my cock begins to tingle, to swell—the beginning of my knot forming. It’s a sensation I’ve only experienced with her, only with my true mate, and the biological significance of it still amazes me. My body knows her, recognizes her at the most primal level.
She feels it too, her movements becoming more deliberate as she grinds down against the growing bulge. “It’s happening,” she gasps, her eyes wide with wonder. “Your knot...”
“Yes,” I hiss, fighting the urge to thrust up into her harder, to force the swelling past her entrance before she’s ready. “For you. Only for you.”
Her eyes darken with something I’ve come to recognize—desire, yes, but also determination. She leans close, her mouth at my ear, her words a hot whisper against my skin: “I want it. All of it. I want you to knot me, Roarke. I want you to bite me. Make me yours. Completely.”
The words send a shock of heat through my system. We’ve talked about this—the bonding bite, the knotting—what it would mean for both of us. The permanence of it. The way it would bind us together in ways that transcend the physical.
She knows what she’s asking for.
“Are you sure?” I ask anyway, needing to hear it one more time.
In answer, she takes my hand and guides it to where we’re joined, pressing my fingers against her slick folds. “Feel how wet I am for you,” she says, her voice breaking as I find her clit. “How ready I am. I want this, Roarke. I want you. All of you.”
I circle her sensitive bundle of nerves with my thumb, watching her face as pleasure overtakes her. Her eyes glaze, her mouth falls open on a silent gasp, and her inner walls clench rhythmically around my cock. She’s close—so close—but I want her to come again before I take her completely.
“Come for me first,” I tell her, increasing the pressure and speed of my movements. “Let me feel you.”
She does, her body going rigid as the orgasm washes over her. Her inner muscles clamp down on me with almost painful intensity, her slick heat gushing around my length as she cries out my name. The sight of her coming undone, the feeling of her pulsing around me, nearly pushes me over the edge.
But not yet. Not like this.
As the aftershocks of her climax subside, I lift her off me, ignoring her whimper of protest. “Turn around,” I command, my voice rough with need. “On your hands and knees.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed by a fresh wave of arousal that I can smell as clearly as if it were a visible cloud around her. She complies eagerly, positioning herself before me, her back arched, her perfect ass raised in invitation.
I kneel behind her, my hands gripping her hips as I position myself at her entrance again.
She’s even wetter now, her earlier orgasm leaving her slick and ready for me.
I push forward, watching my cock disappear into her inch by inch, the contrast of my size against her smaller body still the most erotic sight I’ve ever witnessed.
When I’m fully seated inside her again, I pause, savoring the sensation. Her inner walls ripple around me, still trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm. My knot is more pronounced now, pressing against her entrance without yet pushing through.
“Please,” she begs, looking back over her shoulder at me with desperation in her eyes. “I need it. I need all of you.”
I begin to move, setting a rhythm that’s deeper, harder than before. Each thrust drives me further into her soft, each withdrawal dragging a moan from her throat. The sound of our bodies meeting fills the room—wet, obscene, perfect.
My knot grows with each movement, pressing more insistently against her entrance. I can feel my control slipping, my thrusts becoming more erratic as the pressure builds at the base of my spine.
“Now,” she gasps, pushing back against me. “Please, Roarke. Knot me. Bite me. Make me yours.”
With a growl that comes from somewhere deep and primal inside me, I thrust forward one final time, pushing my swelling knot past her entrance.
She cries out—pain and pleasure mingling in the sound—as her body stretches to accommodate me completely.
At the same moment, I lean forward and sink my teeth into the nape of her neck, breaking the skin, tasting the metallic tang of her blood.
The effect is immediate and overwhelming.
Heat explodes between us, a rush of energy that has nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the bond forming—soul to soul, essence to essence.
I can feel her—not just her body around mine, but her emotions, her sensations, her very being.
She feels it too. I know she does because suddenly I’m experiencing what she’s experiencing—the fullness of me inside her, the pressure of my knot stretching her, the sharp sweet pain of my teeth in her neck. It’s a feedback loop of pleasure so intense it borders on unbearable.
My orgasm hits me like a physical blow, tearing a roar from my throat as I empty myself inside her.
I can feel her coming again too, her inner walls milking my cock, drawing out every drop of my release.
The amount is overwhelming, more than I’ve ever produced before, and even with my knot locking us together, some of our combined fluids leak out, running down her thighs in hot rivulets.
We stay like that for long moments, both of us trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure, both of us adjusting to the new awareness of each other that hums between us like a live wire. The bond. Complete. Irrevocable.
Eventually, I become aware that I’m still gripping her hips with bruising force. I release her immediately, wincing as I see the red marks my fingers have left on her skin. They’ll darken into bruises, I know—visible evidence of my lack of control.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, gently stroking the marks.
She turns her head to look at me, her expression dazed but blissful. “Don’t you dare apologize,” she says, her voice hoarse. “That was... I don’t even have words.”
Carefully, mindful of where we’re still connected, I maneuver us onto our sides. It will be at least twenty minutes before my knot subsides enough for us to separate, and I want her comfortable. I reach for the throw blanket we’d been using during the movie, draping it over us both.
She sighs contentedly, her body relaxing against mine, her legs tangled with mine. Through our new bond, I can feel her satisfaction, her happiness, her love for me radiating like warmth from a fire.
“I love you,” I tell her, nuzzling the bite mark on her neck. It’s already healing, the skin knitting together at a supernatural rate—another effect of the bond. It will leave a scar, though. A permanent mark declaring her as mine.
“I love you too,” she murmurs, already drifting toward sleep. “My lion. My mate.”
I hold her close, savoring the weight of her in my arms, the scent of her surrounding me, the feel of her life force now permanently entwined with mine.
After years of solitude, of keeping everyone at a distance, I’ve found home in this chaotic, beautiful woman who bakes bread at 3 AM and names dragons after chicken.
And now she’s truly mine. As I am truly hers.
Forever.