A low, inhuman growl rumbles through your core.

His hips press you deeper into the cushions.

The velvet arm of the sofa digs into your stomach as he holds you pinned, a position born of hours and months of knowing exactly how to take you apart. His free hand is wrapped around your hip. His claws—and you feel each one, just barely grazing—tighten as he breathes out slow through his nose.

Not even when he rolls his hips and buries himself deeper.

His fingers trace the curve of your spine, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing it.