Taming the Beast
“What do you think?” he whispered. He snaked a hand up her shirt and palmed her breast, flicking at the nipple.
“Oh. Don’t stop doing that.”
“You like that?”
“I like to feel everything at once.”
“I want to give you that. But not here.”
She understood. What they were doing wasn’t about lovemaking, but rather satiating urgent needs. She may have been less wild about hers, but they both had them. His needs were animal. Hers were witch. Passion should have been a given.
His thrusts faltered as his breath went uneven and ragged. “Sweet Mary, you’re so wet for me. Gods, your pussy is…”
He swallowed loudly and whatever adjective he was going to use was lost in his stream of swears. He didn’t need to be explicit. She was touching him, so she understood. She was wet, and she liked that he appreciated her responsiveness, because not every man was so lucky. Few turned her on the way he did. Fewer still got access to what he was receiving.
His arm draped over her waist possessively, and he whispered, “Help me. Help me make you come. Show me what you want.”
Done.
She put his hand at the top of her mound and got him rubbing, and then worked her hand into her shirt, plucking and pinching her nipples, all the while rolling her hips and squeezing him with all the power she could muster from her lower muscles.
“Just…just like that.” Her voice was an unattractive whine in a pitch she normally couldn’t reach, but she could hardly draw enough air to push sound through her throat. Her spine bowed from his enthusiastic fondling of her clit. Prickles of pleasure made her sheath clench, her belly spasm. Added to the extra sensation from her nipples, the nerves of which seemed to be on a direct line to her cunt, she could hardly tell if she were awake or dreaming.
Like him.
He’d been dreaming of her body. “Gods.” She gripped his wrist and stopped his fingers from working her, and then writhed violently against his body. He didn’t stop thrusting, though, not even when she hiccupped from a shortage of oxygen. Not even when her eyes watered from the overload of sensations.
“Thank you,” he said softly, and he thrust once more, and then voiced a primal-sounding howl toward the ceiling.
She should have been afraid. She should have slid off of his amazing cock, fixed her panties, grabbed her bag, and ran.
But she didn’t. He wasn’t the monster she needed to fear.
She pulled her arm more tightly around her and closed her eyes to the sound of Andreas’s breathing gentling and to the feel of his body going languid behind hers.
He slipped out of her, and swallowed audibly. “Thank you,” he repeated. The words sounded like a chant or a prayer, and she didn’t understand why. She hadn’t earned them.
“What are you thanking me for?”
“I don’t know. I think the wolf…” He drew in a breath and let it out. “The part of me that is wolf needed me to say the words.”
“Why do you think that is?”
He skimmed his fingertips over her belly and twined his legs with hers. “I think wolves have some peculiar mating practices. My urges aren’t so easy to qualify right now.”
She opened her eyes, only to furrow her brow and stare unseeing at the pile of junk in front of them.
Wolves…
She’d read every book from her father’s stash. She may have known more about werewolf lore than Andreas did, but she’d never tried to put any of the information in context. Like the Afótama, and their distant cousins in Fallon, Wolves were peculiar about their mates. Wolves, especially, tended to form quick and lasting attachments to their partners if they were the right ones.
Werewolves mated for life if the mate was right.
He kissed the top of her head and moaned pleasurably as he fit his warm body against hers.
“Andreas?”
“Yes?”