The Beast (Black Dagger Brotherhood 14)

All thought ended as he felt her hand on top of the covers . . . right over his cock.

The sound that boiled up out of him was part mmmmmm and part moan. Her touch, even distilled through the blankets, was enough to kick-start his heart, soft-boil his blood, overheat his skin with a delicious tingle.

And leave him a thin inch away from an orgasm.

The hospital bed’s mattress shifted as she stretched out next to him, and her palm moved under the sheet, traveling oh, so very downward. Spreading his legs to give her all the access she wanted, he arched his head back and bowed his spine toward the heavens as she gripped his erection. Shouting her name, he felt the beast surge as well, the dragon riding the crest of pleasure along with him, while still staying leashed.

As if it had learned its good manners.

“My Mary . . .” And then he gasped. “Oh, yeah.”

She started stroking him nice and slow, and it was strange the way she affected him. The sex made him feel so powerful, so male, so fucking juiced that he wondered how his flesh managed to contain the great roar of erotic heat . . . and yet she was the master of all of him and the entirety of his reaction, utterly in control, dominating him in ways that made him totally weak before her.

And goddamn that was sexy.

“You’re so beautiful,” she said in a thick voice. “Oh, look at you, Rhage . . .”

He loved the idea that she was watching him, seeing what she was doing to him, reveling in the hold she had on him—literally. And if he couldn’t touch her himself, if he had to be a good boy and keep his hands to himself, at least she could enjoy bringing him to his knees and knowing that she alone had the ability to do this to him.

After all, in spite of whatever distance had cropped up between them lately, nothing had changed for him. Mary was the only female he wanted, the only one he saw, scented, couldn’t wait to be with.

This was good for them. This sizzling sexual connection was important for them right now.

Especially as she fell into a rhythm that pumped his shaft and squeezed his tip. Faster. Faster still. Until he was panting and the sweet pain of anticipation ripped through his body and his head spun like a top.

Not tired anymore. Nope.

“Mary.” He strained on the bed, arching up hard, gripping the mattress on one side and a railing on the other. “Mary, wait . . .”

“What is it?”

As she stopped, he shook his head. “No, keep going—I just want you to do something for me.”

“What’s that?” she said as she ran her palm back up his shaft . . . and then down . . . and then up . . .

What the fuck had he—oh, right.

“Come here, come closer.” When she did, he whispered something in her ear.

Her laugher made him smile himself. “Seriously,” she said. “That’s what you want.”

“Yes.” He arched his body again, rolling his hips so that his erection stroked itself in her hold. “Please? And I’ll beg if you’d like. . . . I love it when I beg you for things.”

Mary shifted up higher on the hospital bed and began to work him in earnest again. Then she leaned in close to his own ear . . .

. . . and with perfect pronunciation said, “Antidisestablishmentarianism.”

With a mad barking curse, Rhage came so hard he saw stars, his erection kicking out against her hand, his cum getting things very, very messy underneath those covers. And all the while, his only thought was of how much he loved his female.

How very much he loved her.

* * *

Two doors down from Rhage’s vocabulary-induced orgasm, Layla was sitting up in her own hospital bed, a giant ball of red yarn on one side of her, the longest neck scarf in the history of the world stretching down to the floor on the other side. In between the two? A belly that was growing so swollen from the twin youngs she carried that she felt as though someone had folded a mattress up and strapped the thing to her torso.

Not that she was in a position to complain. The two were healthy, and as long as she stayed in bed, she knew she was giving them the best chance of survival. And indeed, Qhuinn, their sire, and his beloved, Blay, spoiled her mercilessly down here, as if they both would rather have been the ones to go through the stay-put for her.

Such wonderful males they were.

As she made another turn at the end of yet another row, she smiled as she remembered Blay suggesting that she knit something as that had helped his mother, Lyric, get through her own bedrest with him. It had proven to be good advice—there was something singularly soothing about the click-click of the needles, and the soft yarn between her fingers, and the progress that she could measure tangibly. However, at this point, she was either going to have to cut the thing into segments or give it to a giraffe.

After all, watching Real Housewives marathons without doing something, anything productive was positively untenable. No matter what Lassiter contended to the contrary.

Now Couples Therapy with Dr. Jenn? That was maybe a different story—although, of course, she didn’t learn things relevant to her own relationship. Because she didn’t have a male to call her own.

No, she had an unhealthy obsession that had crashed and burned. Which was a good thing—even though the loss of that which she should never have wanted in the first place had caused unimaginable, and unjustifiable, pain.

But one did not fall in love with the enemy, after all. And not just because one was a Chosen.

It was because Xcor, and his Band of Bastards, had declared war upon Wrath and the Brotherhood. hought ended as he felt her hand on top of the covers . . . right over his cock.

The sound that boiled up out of him was part mmmmmm and part moan. Her touch, even distilled through the blankets, was enough to kick-start his heart, soft-boil his blood, overheat his skin with a delicious tingle.

And leave him a thin inch away from an orgasm.

The hospital bed’s mattress shifted as she stretched out next to him, and her palm moved under the sheet, traveling oh, so very downward. Spreading his legs to give her all the access she wanted, he arched his head back and bowed his spine toward the heavens as she gripped his erection. Shouting her name, he felt the beast surge as well, the dragon riding the crest of pleasure along with him, while still staying leashed.

As if it had learned its good manners.

“My Mary . . .” And then he gasped. “Oh, yeah.”

She started stroking him nice and slow, and it was strange the way she affected him. The sex made him feel so powerful, so male, so fucking juiced that he wondered how his flesh managed to contain the great roar of erotic heat . . . and yet she was the master of all of him and the entirety of his reaction, utterly in control, dominating him in ways that made him totally weak before her.

And goddamn that was sexy.

“You’re so beautiful,” she said in a thick voice. “Oh, look at you, Rhage . . .”

He loved the idea that she was watching him, seeing what she was doing to him, reveling in the hold she had on him—literally. And if he couldn’t touch her himself, if he had to be a good boy and keep his hands to himself, at least she could enjoy bringing him to his knees and knowing that she alone had the ability to do this to him.

After all, in spite of whatever distance had cropped up between them lately, nothing had changed for him. Mary was the only female he wanted, the only one he saw, scented, couldn’t wait to be with.

This was good for them. This sizzling sexual connection was important for them right now.

Especially as she fell into a rhythm that pumped his shaft and squeezed his tip. Faster. Faster still. Until he was panting and the sweet pain of anticipation ripped through his body and his head spun like a top.

Not tired anymore. Nope.

“Mary.” He strained on the bed, arching up hard, gripping the mattress on one side and a railing on the other. “Mary, wait . . .”

“What is it?”

As she stopped, he shook his head. “No, keep going—I just want you to do something for me.”

“What’s that?” she said as she ran her palm back up his shaft . . . and then down . . . and then up . . .

What the fuck had he—oh, right.

“Come here, come closer.” When she did, he whispered something in her ear.

Her laugher made him smile himself. “Seriously,” she said. “That’s what you want.”

“Yes.” He arched his body again, rolling his hips so that his erection stroked itself in her hold. “Please? And I’ll beg if you’d like. . . . I love it when I beg you for things.”

Mary shifted up higher on the hospital bed and began to work him in earnest again. Then she leaned in close to his own ear . . .

. . . and with perfect pronunciation said, “Antidisestablishmentarianism.”

With a mad barking curse, Rhage came so hard he saw stars, his erection kicking out against her hand, his cum getting things very, very messy underneath those covers. And all the while, his only thought was of how much he loved his female.

How very much he loved her.

* * *

Two doors down from Rhage’s vocabulary-induced orgasm, Layla was sitting up in her own hospital bed, a giant ball of red yarn on one side of her, the longest neck scarf in the history of the world stretching down to the floor on the other side. In between the two? A belly that was growing so swollen from the twin youngs she carried that she felt as though someone had folded a mattress up and strapped the thing to her torso.

Not that she was in a position to complain. The two were healthy, and as long as she stayed in bed, she knew she was giving them the best chance of survival. And indeed, Qhuinn, their sire, and his beloved, Blay, spoiled her mercilessly down here, as if they both would rather have been the ones to go through the stay-put for her.

Such wonderful males they were.

As she made another turn at the end of yet another row, she smiled as she remembered Blay suggesting that she knit something as that had helped his mother, Lyric, get through her own bedrest with him. It had proven to be good advice—there was something singularly soothing about the click-click of the needles, and the soft yarn between her fingers, and the progress that she could measure tangibly. However, at this point, she was either going to have to cut the thing into segments or give it to a giraffe.

After all, watching Real Housewives marathons without doing something, anything productive was positively untenable. No matter what Lassiter contended to the contrary.

Now Couples Therapy with Dr. Jenn? That was maybe a different story—although, of course, she didn’t learn things relevant to her own relationship. Because she didn’t have a male to call her own.

No, she had an unhealthy obsession that had crashed and burned. Which was a good thing—even though the loss of that which she should never have wanted in the first place had caused unimaginable, and unjustifiable, pain.

But one did not fall in love with the enemy, after all. And not just because one was a Chosen.

It was because Xcor, and his Band of Bastards, had declared war upon Wrath and the Brotherhood.