The Alpha's Unclaimed Mate novel Chapter 316

Chapter 316: Good Girl. Cum. Now. Holy SHIT.

Marking venom healed, which was useful. It knocked her out every damn time, which was a minor inconvenience. But it also stole hours from her memory, and that part she never got used to.

She woke up in Dex’s arms with no idea how she got there, standard, and her mind in a fog.

She turned her head.

Dex was dead asleep. His arm was locked across her waist, his face pressed into the back of her shoulder, breathing the deep, heavy rhythm of a man who had been running on adrenaline for hours and had crashed the moment his body decided it was safe to stop. He looked younger when he slept, the sharp edges of him softened into something closer to the boy he must have been before crowns and wars made him into this.

She shifted. One small movement, adjusting her weight, barely a sound.

His eyes opened.

The transition from unconscious to alert was instantaneous, zero to combat-ready in the space between one heartbeat and the next, and before her brain registered that he was awake, he was above her. Both hands on either side of her head, chest pressed to hers, mouth on her forehead, then her cheek, then her mouth, kissing her like he needed to confirm she was real.

"Are you okay?" His voice was rough from sleep and raw from everything that had come before it. "Tell me you’re okay."

"I’m fine." She caught his face between her hands and held it above hers. "Dex. I’m fine. Stop worrying."

"That’s a ridiculous request and I’m ignoring it."

His forehead dropped to hers.

"How did I get here?" she asked.

"I carried you."

"Dex."

"Later." He kissed her again. Slower this time. His hand slid from the mattress beside her head into her hair, fingers threading through the white strands at her temple, tilting her mouth under his. The urgency from seconds ago softened into something deliberate, something that had less to do with checking and more to do with wanting.

She kissed him back. Her hands moved from his jaw to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, and the sound he made against her mouth was low and involuntary and belonged to a man who had spent the last several hours terrified and was now converting all of it into the only language his body trusted.

"I need you," he said against her lips. The words carried no performance. No cocky edge, no practiced delivery. Raw. Stripped. The voice of Dexmon Drakenfell with every weapon laid down.

She answered by pulling him into her.

He undressed her slowly. His hands moved with a precision that was reverent and possessive in equal measure, peeling her training suit down her arms, over her hips, off her legs, each layer removed with the focused attention of a man memorizing the territory he was uncovering. His mouth followed his hands, pressing heat into her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the space between her breasts where her heartbeat lived closest to the surface.

She trembled beneath him. Quiet. Still finding the edges of her own desire, still learning the geography of what her body wanted in the space between timid and certain. Her fingers traced his shoulders, his jaw, the line of muscle that ran from his neck to his chest, touching him the way she touched ancient texts, carefully, thoroughly, with the quiet reverence of a woman who understood the value of what was in her hands.

He pulled his own shirt over his head. Then his trousers. Then he was above her, skin against skin, and the heat of him pressed against her thigh made her breath catch in her throat.

"Look at me," he breathed.

She did. Green eyes, still damp at the lashes, finding gold.

He pushed into her.

Slow. Controlled. Every inch deliberate, the restraint visible in the cords of his neck, in the tremor of his arms, in the way his jaw locked as her body took him deeper. She gasped, her back arching off the mattress, fingers digging into his shoulders.

He held still inside her, letting her adjust, watching her face.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify