Luna stood over him, the air in the master bedroom thick and still. Peter sat rigid in Devan’s leather reading chair, the one by the window where her husband spent his evenings. The boy’s skin was pale against the dark hide, his hands gripping the armrests, his erection a stark, flushed line against his stomach. She let her gaze travel the length of him, a slow, possessive inventory. This was Devan’s chair. This was Devan’s view. The exhilaration that shot through her was clean and sharp, a blade unsheathed.

She knew, with a certainty that felt like memory, that this was the gift. Not the boy, but the act of taking him. This was the version of her Devan was hungry for. The beast he saw, now padding into the light.

“Look at you,” she murmured, her voice a warm, low hum. It was her mothering tone, but the words were anything but. She placed a hand on each of his knees. His skin was cool. She pushed, spreading his legs wider, opening him to the room. The chair creaked softly in protest.

She leaned down and kissed his mouth. It was not the frantic, wet clash from the pool. This was deliberate. She tasted the chlorine on his lips. She kissed him until his rigid posture softened, until his hands unclenched from the leather and came to rest, trembling, on her bare shoulders.

Luna broke the kiss, her lips trailing a wet path along his jaw, down the column of his throat. She felt his pulse hammering against her mouth. She bit down, not hard, but enough to make him gasp. A claiming. She continued her descent, her hands sliding down his chest.

Her mouth found his nipple. She circled it with her tongue, feeling the nub tighten into a hard peak. She sucked gently, then bit—the same gentle, punishing pressure. He jerked beneath her, a choked sound escaping him. She did the same to the other, lavishing it with the same slow, meticulous attention. She was learning his body. Cataloging his reactions. This was study, and she was a ravenous student.

She kissed down the tense plane of his stomach. His abs clenched under her lips. She licked the salt from his skin, the faint, clean scent of his soap giving way to something muskier, more essentially him. Her hair brushed over his thighs as she moved lower, and she felt the full, hot weight of his cock against her cheek.

She paused there, her breath washing over him. She watched the bead of moisture well at his tip, a clear, urgent pearl. She could smell him now—that specific, heady scent of male arousal. It was not unfamiliar. It was Devan’s scent, but younger, sharper, laced with the terror and awe of this moment. It made her mouth water.

“Luna,” he whispered, a plea and a prayer.

She didn’t answer with words. She turned her head and took him into her mouth.

She took him deep, her lips stretching around his girth, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat. She relaxed into it, the way Devan had taught her. She remembered his hands in her hair, his low, encouraging voice in the dark of their own bed. *Take it all. You can. You want to.* She did want to. A fierce, proud hunger surged in her chest.

She pulled back slowly, her tongue pressing hard against the throbbing vein on his underside. She felt his pulse there, a frantic drumbeat against her flesh. She swirled her tongue around the head, collecting the bitter-salt taste of him, then sank down again, deeper this time. Her nose pressed into the coarse hair at his base.

Her rhythm was not frantic, but it was relentless. She used her hand, fisting the base of him in time with the plunge of her mouth. The sounds were obscene and beautiful—the wet, sucking pull of her lips, his ragged, gasping breaths, the soft, helpless groans he tried to stifle. She looked up, her eyes meeting his. His were wide, glazed, locked on her. On the sight of her mouth on him.

This was what Devan wanted. This confidence. This ownership. She was not servicing the boy. She was devouring him. And Peter, in his stunned submission, was giving her exactly what she needed—the proof of her own power. The beast was not just awake. It was feasting.

She varied her pace, drawing long, slow pulls that made his thighs tremble, then quick, shallow flicks of her tongue that made his hips buck. She cupped his balls, rolling the heavy weight in her palm, feeling them draw up tight. He was close. The tension in his body was a bowstring, thrumming.

“I’m about to…” he choked out.

She released him with a soft pop, her lips slick and swollen. She held him at the very edge, her hand still working him slowly. A thin strand of saliva connected her mouth to his shining, desperate cock. She smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips. Her other hand came up to stroke his cheek, a gesture of terrifying tenderness.

“Soon,” she said, her voice husky with use. “But not yet.”

She lowered her head again, taking him back into the wet, willing heat of her mouth. She took him to the brink once more, feeling his entire body coil, then she pulled off again, denying him. She did it a third time, learning the exact moment of no return, dancing her tongue just beneath it. His pleas became broken, wordless. His hands fisted in her hair, not guiding, just clinging.

This was the unlocking. Not just of him, but of herself. In the giving of this pleasure, in the total control of its withholding, Luna felt a freedom so vast it stole her breath. She was a mother. She was a wife. And in this room, in her husband’s chair, she was a ravenous, beautiful beast. And she was just beginning to feed.