Savage Awakening (Alpha Pack #2)(28)
"Ahhh, yes."
Too goddamned long. Felt so freakin' good to rub the slippery suds along his sac, roll them around. Thank God his balls weren't sore anymore. His c**k took interest in playtime, lengthening to curve toward his belly and beg for attention. He took his sweet time, washing his balls, rinsing. Then he poured a generous amount of the liquid soap-unarguably the greatest invention ever-along his c**k and took the eager member in hand.
Hissing, he gripped his shaft tighter, shivering at the pleasure flowing through his belly. He began to pump, down to the tight sac, up again to the plump head, flushed purple with need. Good, but...
The intensity was missing. The Oh, my God factor that made him strain to hold back from coming and sent waves of fire through his body. Concentrating, he fisted himself almost brutally, reaching for the pinnacle that remained elusive.
To his complete astonishment, his erection began to wilt.
"What the-? No f**king way!"
Leaning against the tiled wall, he gaped at his flagging dick, trying to imagine what had gone wrong. He and the rest of the Pack had the highest libidos he'd ever seen and required release on a regular basis-something they took care of with occasional trips to Las Vegas. Aric had been denied any sort of sexual contact-well, he wasn't about to jack himself in front of his stepsister or her cohorts even if he'd been able-so he should've been ready to blow the second he touched himself.
This was so not right. Thinking hard, he called to mind the last whore he'd f**ked in Sin City. Problem was, she wasn't all that memorable, though he'd been in ecstasy at the time. No, only one woman interested him in the least. A gross understatement.
Rowan's face, her tall, strong body and luscious ass, invaded his mind. Arousal slammed into his gut like a sledgehammer and his c**k stiffened instantly. A growl of satisfaction rumbled in his chest as he began to stroke himself, fantasizing that she was here with him. As eager to taste him as he was to slide the head between her lips. Deeper, inching all of his meat down her slender throat.
"Oh, f**k."
That's what he'd do. Fuck that lush mouth of hers, slow and easy. Grip her thick sable hair, guide himself in and out, increasing the pace until he was giving all she could take. Fast and furious as she slurped him down.
"Shit, yes!"
His balls drew up, ribbons of electricity zinging through his groin, his thighs. Orgasm bore down on him like a freight train and his c**k erupted, creamy streams of come arching into the spray of water to swirl down the drain. Shuddering, he milked the last of it and slumped.
Lord, he was tired. The exhaustion from his ordeal, followed by a refreshing shower and a great orgasm, left him hardly able to stand. Quickly, he finished and got out, drying off and toweling his long hair to get out all the moisture he could.
He fished under the sink for the blow dryer, took a brush, and went to work on getting out weeks' worth of tangles. Maybe someday he'd just hack all of it off short. He liked his long hair-and so did the women, they said-but taking care of it was a bitch. He had to blow it dry because he hated sleeping with wet hair.
As he did, he winced at his reflection in the mirror. He'd lost weight; no surprise there. His chest still sported a few bruises, but he wondered about his back since he'd yet to look. Once the long mass was reasonably dry, he put away the dryer and, taking a deep breath, turned his back to the mirror. Moving his hair out of the way, he peered over his shoulder and studied his reflection-and cursed.
His skin looked like a f**king road map.
Angry, puckered pink lines crisscrossed the entire area from his shoulder blades to his ass. The silver barbs in Beryl's favorite whip had performed just the way she'd known they would on a shifter, taking twice as long to heal and leaving terrible scars when a regular whip wouldn't have.
He would be carrying these reminders of captivity for the rest of his life. However long, or short, that might be. If it took his last breath, he'd find a way to make Beryl, Chappell, and whoever was calling the shots suffer. Scream as he'd done.
As he walked out of the bathroom, a wave of dizziness nearly toppled him. He braced himself with one hand on the wall until the rocking stopped, and suddenly hoped he could make it to the bed. He was that tired.
Lurching the last few feet, he fell onto the mattress and let his body sink into the softness. He didn't have the energy to pull back the covers, but didn't care. He was home. His eyes drifted shut and his last thought was that it was kind of warm in the room.
And then sleep claimed him, and he no longer cared about that, either.
Aric knew he was dreaming.
Dreams were like that sometimes. The subconscious mind knew you were in bed, cozy and slumbering away, but the spirit was willing to go along and see where the adventure led.
His inner twenty-one-year-old loved Las Vegas. Had ever since he'd become legal and had first set foot in the city, a lifetime ago, it seemed. He'd never forget the lights at night, the city in constant motion, strangely alluring, like a gaudy lady getting a bit older, wearing too much makeup and jewelry, laughing a little too loud. Yet when she beckoned, a young man couldn't help but follow.
It made perfect sense that he found himself standing on the street downtown, gazing at the light show on the awning overhead. Crowds of people bustled in and out of Fitzgeralds, the Golden Nugget, the Horseshoe, and Union Plaza. Others strolled toward the main drag, on their way to hop buses to the Strip, to partake of shows or other pleasures.