Tangled in Moonlight: Unshifted novel Chapter 466

Chapter 466: Lisa: Subverted

His skin tastes like salt and something distinctly Kellan—a flavor I can’t name but already crave. I take my time beneath the covers, just barely brushing my lips against the sharp jut of his hip bone. The hospital gown is bunched around his waist, and I’ve arranged the thin blanket like a curtain, shielding us from anyone who might walk in.

Though I’m thinking about anyone else right now. And even if someone did walk in? I wouldn’t stop.

My world has narrowed to this bed. To Kellan’s breath, stuttering each time my tongue grazes his skin. To the way his abs flex when I kiss just below his navel. To the pulse I feel beneath my palm when I flatten my hand across his stomach, tracing every ridge of muscle, every scar.

"I want you to remember what it feels like to be worshipped," I murmur into his skin, and I mean every word.

He deserves this. Deserves to be touched like he’s sacred. Not because he’s usually a dominant, but because he’s Kellan. Mine.

I start with kisses. Random, reverent. His inner thigh. The crease where leg meets hip. The hollow above his pelvis. Every place I touch earns a twitch, a breath, a sound.

Then I shift to licks—long, flat strokes of my tongue that make his muscles jump. Teasing flicks to trail along his skin until he’s groaning.

Next comes breath. No touch at all, just heat as I hover, mouth barely open, letting warm air drift across where he wants me most.

He’s already well on his way to rock-hard by the time I let my lips drag across the head of his cock, just once. A single, deliberate taste.

His whole body jerks. "Lisa—fuck—"

"You’re okay," I whisper, not pulling back. "You’re with me. I’ve got you."

My hand wraps around the base, and I start to stroke—slow, intentional. I twist at the top, just enough to make his hips shift.

"You’re killing me," he rasps.

I look up through my lashes, and let a smile curl my lips. "Well. Not yet."

My tongue follows my hand, lazy circles that keep him hovering in place. Just the edge. Just the ache.

It’s hot under the blanket, almost claustrophobic. Oxygen feels scarce while his scent is thick, but I push through it.

When I finally take him into my mouth, I go slow—inch by inch. My throat opens for him like it’s meant to. He gasps, hand trembling in my hair, not guiding, just grounding.

I move with purpose. Hollow my cheeks. Ease down, then back up. The rhythm is steady. Cruel. Reverent.

He’s panting. His legs tense under my hands. His cock throbs against my tongue and I know—he’s close.

So I stop.

I pull back with a slick sound that echoes too loud in the quiet room, trailing kisses up the hard lines of his body. My head pops out of the blanket and I linger at the edge of his collarbone, press my lips to his throat, then bite gently.

His hips jerk.

He’s trembling beneath me, chest rising too fast, arms rigid at his sides. His fists are clenched around the sheet like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. And maybe it is.

I glance at the neat rows of white bandages across his chest. The bruising underneath is still angry, swollen along one side. I stay clear of the worst of it—no pressure, no risk—but I brush my fingers along the uninjured skin, letting my touch linger just enough to tease.

"You’re hurting yourself trying not to touch me," I whisper, watching the tension ripple through his arms.

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