Mated to the Warrior Beast

166 Hot & Cold – Part 2*

~ HARTH ~

Being bathed by Tarkyn was the most erotic thing Harth had ever experienced. As he played that soap over her skin, her chest heaved and her hands trembled as much from desire as cold.

His massive, burnished body gleamed in the low light of the fire, and his eyes glowed with a fierce heat as he watched himself run the soap over her body, shivering occasionally and gripping her when she rubbed herself against him.

But after a few minutes of that, with both of them trembling, both their drives pressed to breaking point—and fueled by their sense of the others—Tarkyn made her stand on her own two feet as he quickly, efficiently, soaped up her legs.

There was a moment though, when he squatted at her feet, that he looked up at her, his eyes flashing the gold of his lion. Before she could say anything, he ran his fingers up the inside of her thigh, to the apex and found her with his fingers—slick and soapy against her softest skin.

She gasped and grabbed for his shoulders, but he was only teasing her.

“Almost done,” he rasped as he stood, tossing the soap aside and taking her by the hips. For a moment she thought he would douse her under that waterfall again and she tensed, sucking in a breath to protest, but instead, he just tugged her against him and held her there, kissing her deeply, his tongue delving and swirling against hers until he stole her breath as well as weakened her knees.

He met her eyes then, his own hooded and bright, and growled, “All clean.”

Her belly clenched so that she thought she might actually climax

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Then with a low growl, he dropped to retrieve the cloth from the warm water in the pot. When she started to turn, he snarled and gripped the back of her neck, holding her there, arched back in front of him as he didn’t even bother wringing the cloth, but trailed it over her body, then squeezed it with one hand so that it trailed water over her chest and stomach.

Again, and again.

Then he reluctantly turned her around and urged her to lift her hair while he used both cloths to trail water over her skin, over and over, the pattering and dripping somehow making those warm, tingling trails down her skin even more thrilling.

But Harth was growing impatient, her body clenching and trilling with desire. So when he plunged the cloths into the warm water again, she dropped, crouching, to grab his wrists.

“I’m rinsed,” she said. “My turn.”

“One more,” he growled so that Harth’s breath caught.

And then, when she stood, he grasped the cloth and pressed it between her legs to rinse her there. And when she sucked in a breath and bit her lip, he did it again, but this time, bringing only his hand up to splash water over her, then touch and tease.

“Have to make sure you’re clean and rinsed… completely,” he croaked.

Harth was barely breathing, her head dropped back as he slid first one finger into her, then a second, teasing and kneading, while her knees trembled and threatened to give out.

When he finally withdrew with a curse, she didn’t give him a chance to stop her again, but leaned over to grab the cloths from the water and turned to slap them against his chest, squeezing them, drawing them across his pecs and down his belly.

Tarkyn stared at her, his mouth loose, breath hot, but he didn’t stop her.

Her movements were slightly crazed, her fingers clawed around the cloths so that her nails caught his skin at times, but he only hissed with pleasure when she drew them down his body again and again.

At some point she lost sight of rinsing him, and just enjoyed the sight of him dripping with water, steam rising from his shining skin, following the trails of droplets that ran down from his chest, to his narrow stomach to catch in the dips between his muscles and be drawn away.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve a mate who’s so hot,” she panted, “But dear God, thank you.”

Tarkyn gave a breathless laugh, then grabbed the cloths from her and tossed them into the pot, before snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her over to the side where their towels hung.

“Don’t move,” he muttered as he placed her with her back to the cave and reached for the closest one, then began to dry her, rubbing her skin in rough circles.

His breath tore in and out of his throat, and his movements were jerky and rough, but she didn’t care, grabbing the towel still on the rack and using it on his body as much as she could reach while he dried her.

Then, when he stood—she still hadn’t dried his back or legs—he grabbed the towel from her hands and threw it aside, lifting her before she could protest.



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“I’ll air-dry,” he grated out as he swept her up and carried her deeper into the cave.

Harth laughed, but not for long, because Tarkyn was a male with a mission. Effortlessly, he carried her across the cave then threw her onto the sleeping platform, leaping up to crawl over her as she scooted herself up towards the pillows, sucking in a breath when first the slick furs rubbed against her at the back, then Tarkyn slid up her body from the front.

She opened her arms and knees to welcome him as he found her, slid her fingers into his hair and took his head in her hands, pulling him into a desperate kiss.

But she’d barely found him when he plunged into her and her head fell back, an involuntary cry rising from her throat.

“Harth… my love…” he moaned, both hands fisted into the furs at either side of her head.

Harth couldn’t breath as he moved within her in desperate, frantic thrusts.