Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood 9)

She stayed like that, as if she were waiting to see what he was going to say, and as their eyes locked, his cock strained so hard, it was a wonder it didn’t bust open the front of his frickin’ pants.

“Let it go, bambina,” he heard himself say.

And she did.

Fucking hell, he’d never wanted to worship the law of gravity before, but he did now: He wanted to prostrate himself at Newton’s altar and weep with gratitude for the blessing that made all things fall to the goddamn ground.

“Look at you,” he growled, watching those pink tips get tight.

Without conscious thought or any warning, his wet arm reached out and grabbed her, pulling her to his mouth, holding her hard as he sucked her nipple in and tongued her. But he didn’t need to worry he’d offended her. Payne’s hands dove into his hair and she cradled him against her as he suckled on her, bending her back until he was holding her upright and she was all naked female ready to be devoured.

Maneuvering her around, he canned the light and took them both under the warm spray of the shower. As her body illuminated from within, he sank onto his knees, catching with his tongue the hot water that sluiced between her breasts and ran down her stomach.

As she threw her hand out to catch her balance, he was on it, guiding her down so that she was safely sitting on the bench. Arching up, he palmed her nape and kissed her deep as he went for the soap and got ready to make sure she was very, very clean. As her tongue met his own, he was so into the feel of her nipples brushing against his chest and her lips against his own that he didn’t notice or care that his hair was plastering onto his skull or that the scrubs had Saran Wrapped on him, clinging to his body.

“Healer . . .” she gasped as he started soaping her skin.

Her upper body grew slick and hot as his palms went all over her, from her neck to the tops of her hip bones. And then he started in on her legs, working her delicate feet and ankles and moving ever upward, over her calves and the backs of her knees.

Water was all around them, falling between them, washing her off as soon as he sudsed her up, and the sound of it falling on the tile was drowned out only by her moans.

Shit was only going to get louder, too.

Sucking on her neck, he spread her knees wider and wider, pushing himself between them. “I told you”—he bit her a little—“you would like bathtime.”

In response, her hands speared into his shoulders, her nails digging in and making him wonder if it wasn’t time to start thinking about baseball stats, zip codes . . . car prices.

Eleanor Roosevelt.

“You were correct, healer,” she said, panting. “I love it—but you are too well clothed.”

Manny closed his eyes as he shuddered. And then he got enough control over himself so he could speak. “Nah . . . I’m good the way I am. You just lean back and let me take care of this.”

Before she could respond, he sealed his mouth on hers and pushed her against the wall with his chest. To get her to stay away from the subject of his getting naked, he slid both hands up the insides of her thighs and ran his fingertips across her sex.

As he felt how wet she was—and it was the kind of wet that had nothing to do with water and everything to do with what he wanted all over his tongue—he pulled back a little and looked down.

Fucking . . . hell . . . she was so ready for him. And, man, what she looked like, all bent back, the water making her breasts glisten, her lips parted and a little bruised from him kissing her, her legs spread apart.

“Will you take me now?” she moaned, her eyes flashing, her fangs elongating.

“Yes . . .”

He gripped her knees and went down, putting his mouth where his eyes had locked. As she cried out, he went for it hard and fast, engulfing her sex, driving her hard, making no excuses for how much he wanted her. When she blew apart, his tongue went into her and he felt it all, the pulses, the way she jerked against his chin and nose, the hard grip of her hands on his head.

No reason to stop there.

With her, he had endless stamina, and he knew, as long as his scrubs stayed on him, he could keep going like this with her . . . forever.

Vishous woke up in a bed that was not his own, but it didn’t take him more than a nanosecond to know where he was: the clinic. In one of the recovery rooms.

After giving his eyes a good rub, he glanced around. The light was on in the bathroom and its door was cracked, so there was plenty to see by . . . and the first thing that stood out was the duffel bag across the way on the floor.

It was one of his. Specifically, the one he’d given Jane.

She wasn’t here, however. Not in this room, at least.

As he sat up, he felt as if he’d been in a car accident, aches and pains blooming all over his body like he was an antenna and every single radio signal in the world was channeling into his nervous system. With a groan, he shifted around so that his legs dangled off the bed—and then he had to take a little breather.