Silken Rapture (Princes of the Underground 2)

He was bursting, ready to erupt.

He raised himself, straddling her at the hips, panting shallowly. Her eyes went wide when she glanced down and saw the state of him. His cock felt tight and heavy in his hand. He stroked the length once, and then twice, shivering as ripples of pleasure coursed through him.

“I’m sorry,” he managed between gritted teeth as he began to come…to explode. Semen arced and landed on her belly. He groaned gutturally, in the grip of ecstasy. He shifted, shooting his seed onto her heaving breasts and the delicate cage of bone that protected her precious, fluttering heart. Still, his orgasm slammed through him in wave after powerful wave, and he pumped and pumped, his muscles coiled tight, trying to vanquish this clawing need, and desperate at the same time to have it go on and on and on…

He fell down over her, holding himself up with his arms, panting. He seemed to require more air than his lungs could supply, and he sucked madly, trying to regain his equilibrium after being thoroughly shaken by the talon-sharp clutches of desire.

Seconds later, he lifted his head and focused on her. She stared up at him with huge eyes, her reddened lips parted, her cheeks flushed with blood. His incisors ached dully with a need to pierce her, just as his cock pulsed out a mandate to penetrate her, to fuck her deep and hard.

He thought of what he’d just done, however, and did neither of those things. Instead, he carefully began to use the silk to dry her of his semen. It lay on her thick from neck to the top of her pubic hair. He’d often fantasized about coating her in his essence. The primal, bestial part of him seemed as deeply pleased as his refined Magian temperament by the blatant evidence of his possession.

When he’d finished, he gently slid her along the silk several inches, removing her from the semen-wet fabric.

“Now your essence will truly be infused into the silk,” she murmured throatily.

He glanced up, his gaze snagging on her curving lips.

“I would have it infused into the miracle of your flesh,” he said, his voice quiet, but rough from need.

“Then make it so.”

So like Isabel, he thought, to challenge him in a whisper.

Chapter Twelve

Their stares remained locked as he worked his cockhead into her, fusing their flesh. Her cheeks flamed hot in arousal even as her body stretched to accommodate him. He pushed gently, but firmly. She whimpered when he slid home. He held himself off her with his hands, his knees bracing him, only their lower bellies and pelvises pressing tightly, skin sealed to skin.

She longed to have him come down completely over her. He was a large man, and she was small, but she craved it nonetheless, the feeling of his weight pinning her down, of tasting the sweat on his skin…of absorbing him completely as they mated. She told him what she wanted in a shaking voice, but his arm, shoulder and chest muscles remained tense and bulging as he held himself off her.

He began to fuck her, drawing his penis half its length out of her, stroking her deliberately, firmly. A cry escaped her throat at the intense pressure. She closed her eyes and turned her head, overwhelmed by the mounting friction. Every nerve in her body burned, demanding stimulation. She moved her head, the sensation of silk against her heated cheek mounting her arousal. Her mouth opened, the corner of her lips slipping against the liquid softness, kissing it.

He fucked her harder now, their perspiration-damp skin smacking against each other rhythmically. She moaned.

He paused briefly, placing his hand on her neck and turning her face upward. She opened her heavy eyelids. He stared down at her, his eyes wild, his face rigid, his incisors fully extended.

“Come down over me,” she pleaded as he began to fuck her again, this time even more forcefully. His cock plunged into her without mercy. It hurt a little, but her clamoring nerves loved even that sensation spicing her pleasure. She’d become a glutton on sensation, craving him…

“You tempt me beyond reason,” he growled as he pounded into her, the friction so taut, his possession so intense that it was as if he tried to ignite a fire between their straining bodies. His hand on her jaw moved. He plunged his thumb between her lips. She suckled him hotly, her eyes fixed on him in a plea. His mouth shaped into a snarl as he watched her. Her desperation mounted.

She twisted her hands, struggling with the restraint at her wrists. Her hips pumped beneath him, matching his strokes, meeting the demands of his need. He was so focused on the image of his thick thumb plunging between her lips he didn’t notice when she broke free of her bonds.

Both of their gazes sprung wide when she placed her bare hands on his shoulders. She had craved sensation, and now it slammed into her—he slammed into her, his fierce spirit, his loneliness, his longing…his suffering.

“Isabel,” he shouted.

She brought his rigid face into focus and realized she’d been screaming. She stopped, panting for air. The waves of sensation and emotion still pummeled into her consciousness, but they were lessening in intensity.

Or else…her spirit was becoming accustomed to his melding with her own.

“Drop your hands,” he demanded. He looked ominous at that moment, his lip curling over one sharp incisor, his eyes wild.

She shook her head, unable to speak. She pulled him toward her.

“No…” he moaned miserably. She continued to urge him, though, and he came down over her.

Somehow she knew, in that moment, that her loving hands were more powerful than his vast, paranormal strength.

The sensation of his weight on her, the scent