The Wanting (D'Shar Men 1)

“You’re so tight, so tight and hot around my cock.”

Awe filled her when her walls adapted to his girth, and the pain took a back seat to the pleasure that unfurled inside her. His hands tilted her hips, and she saw stars as he hit the cluster of nerves inside her.

“Yes!” she said.

This was what she had waited for. Her hips snapped up to meet his strokes as he freed her of his weight.

“You feel so good inside me, Phelan.”

Shaky fingers wrapped around his biceps as she dug her heels into the mattress.

The wet sound of his balls as they slapped against her was music to her ears as her core quivered. Her walls clamped down as the pressure built up exploded. Moments later, Phelan joined Zasha in oblivion. With a roar, his powerful spray rocketed inside her.

Chapter Four

The early day sunshine that filtered in through the window woke Zasha from a fitful slumber. Her first moments of awareness were filled with aches and pains. But those paled in comparison to her shame. She had let him take her any way he pleased, begged him to at some point. Her face grew hot as she cast a glance over her shoulder, relieved to discover him asleep. She had been naïve to think they could satisfy their curiosity and continue on as before.

Shar men aren’t like human. We mate for life.

The words that hadn’t penetrated through her sex-crazed haze were loud and clear. What the hell had she been thinking? Wait, she hadn’t been. That was the problem. There must be some sort of predisposition to aliens ingrained in her genetic make-up. Because her experience, both past and present, showed Johnson woman plus an alien male amounted to an addled brain. How could she make the same mistake as her mother? To become so swept away by emotions your common sense failed.

Not that she would ever place Phelan in the same category as Tavel. Tow-haired with strange emerald blue eyes, a squared jaw, and thin lips, Tavel was the reverse of Phelan. But the similarities were still too close for comfort. A lapse in judgment one night lead to misconstrued emotions; that kind of instantaneous affection wasn’t safe. It consumed you, mind, body, and soul. Left you blinded to the reality of who that person was. This had been one huge error in judgment, but if she wasn’t careful it could easily lead to more. Her mother, Tatiana Johnson, had fallen victim to what she thought was love. She would not disgrace her mother’s memory by being the second.

Before Tavel entered their lives, Tatiana had been a well-oiled machine. An office manager at a law firm by day and a single mother by night, she ran a tight ship, at home as well as in the workplace. Widowed by a fire that destroyed everything she owned during her pregnancy, Tatiana was an independent woman with focus and an intensity that could make you squirm. It was an attitude she’d passed on to her daughter.

“Adapt or die” was the adage Zasha had adopted in her honor when she found herself on her own way too soon.

Grief struck her fresh as she eased her frame from beneath the heavy weight of her lover’s arm. She held her breath in her lungs as she slipped from the bed. Her bare feet were silent on the carpet as she gathered scattered articles of clothing. Clumsy fingers pulled her costume over her head. The sound of the zipper pulled up her

black boots seemed too loud in the massive room. Tense she paused to see if Phelan would stir. He looked so innocent in his sleep.

His face was relaxed. His lips were parted as he inhaled and his chest rose and fell. The tan skin beckoned to her, and she knew it was time to leave. It seemed in poor taste, but a part of what made her a good agent was her instinct for when to press forward and when to retreat. The doorknob was in mid-turn when the voice behind her spoke.

“Was I too rough last night? I would have been gentler had I known—”

“I didn’t want you to be gentle, Phelan,” she said.

The last thing she wanted was for him to feel guilt. He had given her what she’d asked for, and more.

“Then why won’t you look at me.”

She turned to glance over her shoulder and damn near swallowed her tongue. Propped up in bed, he looked edible. His brown locks were mussed and fell over one eye as the black sheets rode dangerously low on his hips.

“Happy?”

“No, Zasha, I’m not.”

Her mouth fell open as he tossed the sheet aside and stood from the bed. His steps were sure, his face a mask of determination as he came to stand in front of her and his semi-erect dick bobbed.

“Even now your arousal permeates the air.”

Muscular arms pinned her to the wooden door she leaned against. One hand was place on either side of her head, and his body hovered so close she could feel the intense heat that radiated off him. He was close, but not near enough to provide the skin to skin contact that she wanted in the worst way. Her hands clenched into fists as the sharp pain her fingernails helped ground her.

“What are you afraid of?”

The five words washed over her desire like a bucket of cold water.

“I’m not afraid. I’m just realistic.”