Her banner swept up and down the back of his leg, frustratingly close to the site of his future heirs, and the smoldering smirk she gifted him with made lava trickle down his spinal column. Their battle of tongues had Kershov groaning at the back of his throat, his mind immediately fantasizing about other slick things he’d love to taste; evidently, the sizzling kiss had Athene crawling out of her fur, too. The confident female arched upward, tugging him down by the aud, her chest pressing into his. He allowed himself to relax into the touch . . . and unleashed a soft snarl of surprise when his partner writhed beneath him, caressing his underside with the entire length of her abdomen until her pelvic region now rested where her head had lain.

Obsidian flickered up to bright suns. Pausing to see if he had permission. When Athene did not draw away, the Alpha dove into the offered banquet open-mouthed and starving. The warm wetness of his maw’s pink muscle parted the folds that hid her from view and sampled the ambrosia there—her unique heat and stunning flavor. A crooning noise throbbed from Kershov’s chest . . . the tip of his tongue swirling around those pretty parfait layers, testing their resiliency, their texture more perfect than polished glass, going anywhere but in. Many males sadly knew nothing of the female anatomy—of the exquisite torture and release that could be orchestrated without ever needing to penetrate that most sacred blossom. Every expert ministration made Athene hotter, nectar beading forth to coat the inside of his mouth . . . “You are divine,” Kershov purred, finishing with a languid swipe up the inside of Athene’s thigh.

The rest of their foreplay passed as a breathless blur. At some point Kershov was back on his paws, inhaling the woman’s perfume as if he were drunk, muzzle weaving in the direction of her proudly flagged banner. That glorious slip of rosy vitality flirting back at him . . . his inner beast roared against its restraints with the overwhelming urge to possess her. At last the moonlight striped fatale circled back to bow before him. Waiting. Inviting. Kershov did not hesitate. Once she finished speaking, he reared onto his hind legs and laid himself across her back.

Forelegs clamped roughly about the femme’s slender waist, holding onto her as if she were the sole lifeline preventing him from being swept under passion’s ruthless tides. Athene’s body was incredible—hard like expertly sculpted marble under a delicately brindled pelt luxurious enough to rival a queen’s robes. His own physique instantly responded: muscles clenching and pupils dilating and all the right parts of him engorged with the promise of their coming feast. Air escaped Ker’s lungs in short, panting gasps, humid and heavy with the bestial lust storming through his blood. “Let us explore one another, Madame Athene. See if we fit.” They were close—so close—to being one, the membranes of their souls pressing tight together, raging, twin fires demanding to merge into a single blazing nucleus. His heart slammed against his breastbone as if to pummel its rhythm directly into Athene’s beautifully curved spine, adding his drumbeat to hers; strong pillars gripped hard enough to bruise and slid from the base of the she-warrior’s ribs toward the soft yielding planes of her flanks, that lovely dip just before the smooth roundness of her hips; they were flush together—thighs touching, limbs trembling, their most intimate places sliding close with a sensation like molten suns joining. The porcelain poltergeist dragged his tongue slowly, leisurely, up nape of Athene’s neck. His teeth left love-nips on the quivering outer shell of her ear . . . the angle of her jaw . . .

And then he seized the woman’s scruff in his fangs, pulling her head back to expose her throat, and drove himself nearly to the hilt inside of her.

Kershov had not been expecting such an effortless conquest—but Athene was more than ready for him, a taut and silky glide he slipped into with the ease of an eel plunging toward its watery den. Wet, slick, a most delicious pressure swallowing him whole . . . the white dragon held his position for a moment, unable to withhold the carnal snarl resonating from his vocal cords. A ferocious, stygian sound—all boiling smoke and charred velvet, satin sheets ripped right off the mattress. “A wondrous sheath you’d make,” Kershov rumbled, rolling his hips so that he might tantalize the sweetly sensitive bundle of nerves currently hugging him close without drawing himself outside of their embrace. “A snug fit . . . perfect for holding one’s prized weapons . . .” He nuzzled at the base of Athene’s ear, licking it with surprising tenderness before following with another growl that seemed to shake their bones. “. . . or one’s children.”

Now he did begin to move in earnest—not to expedite his own euphoria, which would arrive regardless, but to drive Athene over the knife’s edge of her glory. He wanted that serious poetry-filled mouth to moan filthy things into the dirt. He wanted to hear her silver tongue curling around whimpers and mewls of mind-bending ecstasy. The frost-breathing Phantom might have been the one straddling her back, poised above her like a wyvern swooping low to devour its prey, but the two warriors were equally under one another’s power. He impaled her depths . . . and she constricted his manhood, a dance of desire and of violence. If Kershov were not careful, this tempting vixen would wear him out and prove herself the victor. This was unacceptable. He was king here—and when he ordered his subject to come, he expected obedience.

One might expect the ganglord to thrust as if he were a Warhammer, great punches of force to mercilessly dominate his paramour . . . yet this could not be further from the truth, especially when Kershov fucked with the goal of tormenting his partner until they quaked with pleasure. He slipped away from Athene’s gates, biting the inside of his jowls when she almost swallowed him back in—as if her center craved his length to fill her—and bit her scruff again to anchor himself. He then speared her at his leisure . . . penetrating her delicately folded petals inch by agonizing inch . . . a smooth and unhurried stroke, their mutual glide enhanced by the nectar practically dripping down Athene’s thighs. In . . . and back . . . deeper with each elegant, controlled thrust, Kershov aiming to stimulate that special female weakness with exact accuracy on every push. Small yet poignant bursts of euphoria that shimmered and died too quickly, motions meant to madden the maiden they lavished—to make Athene squirm and seethe with building sexual insanity. The striped she-gladiator wanted him to pound her like a raving dog . . . how would she react to Kershov making love to her like a noble prince instead?