Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
A shiver races through my body at the small touch.
I don’t have a pretty mouth. Maybe I did once, but it’s never been full and pouty like all the women in the magazines, and that was before scars destroyed the corner of it. But in this moment, I feel…pretty. He studies my lips so intently, pursing his plump, darker golden mouth as he thinks.
“You want to hear more words?” I ask, my lips brushing against the pads of his fingertips.
He groans low, and his eyes turn such a hot, liquid shade of gold that my nipples prick. He rubs my lower lip again, frowns at the bandages on the side of my face, and then concentrates on my mouth.
And grunts.
I think he’s telling me to do it again.
I suck in a nervous breath, resisting the urge to brush my tongue against those strange fingertips, and speak once more. “I can’t think of what to say to you. I wish I knew your name. I wish you talked. I wish you had pants on.” And then I feel like a liar, because I’m not sure I actually do wish he had pants on. He’s so gloriously beautiful naked. I’ve never seen a man erect before, and his cock looks far, far bigger than I always imagined it’d be. “But I guess wishing doesn’t change anything, right?”
He watches me talk, his fascinated gaze on my lips.
“I guess I could just sing songs if I run out of things to talk about,” I murmur, enjoying his reaction and his touch. The way he purses his mouth and moves his lips as if smacking them is almost…adorable. Which seems weird, given that he’s a ferocious-looking man with claws. He practically vibrates danger. His actions should not be cute.
And yet somehow, I know I’m safe here. He’s had plenty of opportunities to tear me to pieces, but he’s gently resting his fingertips on my lips and watching my mouth move instead.
Maybe now, like this, I can get him to give me his name? I take his hand in mine, boldly reaching for his wrist, and pull his fingers away from my mouth.
He tilts his head slightly, giving me an incredulous look before his gaze goes back to my fingers on his wrist, and he watches me as I put his hand over my heart and pat lightly.
“I’m Rachel,” I tell him. “Ray-chel.” I pat my chest with his hand. “Ray-chel.” Then I release my grip on his wrist and reach out, placing my fingertips over his chest and waiting.
It occurs to me that I could have touched my own chest. I could have tapped my heart and not had to touch him…I just wanted to.
He gazes down at my hand, then puts his free one over it, pressing my palm until it’s flat on his chest. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if savoring the sensation of my touch, and then looks at me.
I gesture at my chest with my stump, brushing it against the hand he still has splayed just below my clavicle. “Ray-chel.” I tap my fingers on his chest, and then give him an expectant look.
His mouth opens, and a croaking sound comes out.
I giggle. I can’t help it. The odd sound—followed by the flash of consternation on his face—is just too funny.
He watches me, utterly fascinated by my reaction, and his mouth curls in a hint of a smile. He tries again. “Ruh…” I repeat my name again, and this time, he gets pretty close to it. “Ruh…chul.”
“Close enough,” I say, and manage a smile. It sounds like he’s swallowing my name, but all words are hard when you are non-verbal, I imagine. I tap his chest with my fingers, trying not to fixate on just how warm he is under my palm, how he doesn’t feel scaly at all despite the tight scale pattern dappling his skin. He doesn’t feel lizard-y or dragon-y in the slightest, but warm and supple and muscular and far, far too appealing. “Let’s see if we can get your name, then, hmm?” I tap the hand on my chest once more and repeat my own name, then look at him, waiting.
He stares at me with an intense look on his face, his eyes whirling. Did he not understand? But after a moment of this, he breaks off with a disappointed-sounding sigh and then taps at my chest. “Ruh-chul.” He hesitates, then taps the hand I have on his breastbone. “Jur…ik.”
The words sound odd, harsh. I try them anyhow. “Joor-ick?”
A broad grin flashes across his face, turning him from slightly stubborn looking to utterly devastating.
“Well,” I breathe, rubbing my thumb across his smooth skin. “That answers that.”
16
JURIK
My female has a name. Granted, it sounds like a desert lizard barking a call to its mate, but it is a name.