Storm's Heart (Elder Races #2)(72)

She totally unzipped him. His beast came roaring out as he slammed into her. He pulled almost all the way out, looking down at her in incredulity, and then he slammed back in, and it was such a tight, liquid slide back, and he felt such a sweet tiny trail of fire along the skin of his back where she had scored him with her nails, just as he had fantasized for what seemed like forever, and she let her head fall back and, good f**king hell, she bared her throat to him in submission—how did she know to do that—and he went hurtling headlong into a climax.

He shuddered, gushing into her, taking her along with him as he ground his hips against her pelvis. She clamped her thighs against his hips as her climax rippled through her, deeper and richer than the first one. He slid a hand under her ass to hold her tighter to him as he rocked in her, his face buried in the slender stalk of her neck.

She stroked the edge of his ear, kissing his temple. I love you. Was it all right to say it now?

His head came up. He looked severe, desperate. He shook all over. “I’m not done,” he gasped. “I’m not—I need—”

Oh gods, she had heard of this, what a Wyr was like in a mating frenzy. She grabbed him by the chin and made him look at her. Her eyes blazed with their own fallen light. “I need everything you have and everything you are. Don’t stop.”

He growled, withdrew, and flipped her over so fast her head spun. He yanked her body into place so that she was kneeling on the floor, bent over the couch. Then he knocked her knees as wide apart as they would go and shoved into her from behind. She shrieked into the couch cushion at the invasion. At this angle he felt bigger than ever, and when he drove in, he went in deeper.

He froze, bent over her, his heavy thighs pressing against the back of hers, his chest pressing against her back. She could feel how his heart hammered in his chest. His voice shook. “Are you all right, faerie?”

She turned her head to nuzzle at him. “I couldn’t be better. I’m small and noisy; I’m not breakable.”

He slid one arm underneath hers to spread his hand at the base of her throat. His fingers spanned the width of her collarbone as he ran his lips along the line of her jaw. “You could have fooled me,” he muttered. He couldn’t hold still any longer and started to move again. “You are so mine, young lady.”

She caught her breath at the gorgeous sensation. “Yes, I am, aren’t I?”

He closed his eyes, and his face tightened as he picked up the pace. She was a fever in his blood. “Mine,” he growled.

“Yours,” she told him.

He covered and surrounded her. Soon he drove into her with long hard powerful thrusts. She flung out her hands to brace herself. “Mine,” he whispered into her ear.

She whimpered, “Yes.”

He gripped her by the chin and turned her to look at him. His eyes blazed white-hot as he slammed her into the couch. He bared his teeth at her.

There you are. Her lips formed the words but she had no breath. He was so deadly, so beautiful, so sexy, so everything.

“Mine,” the monster hissed.

Oh my God, yes.

A look of wonder came over his face. The climax blasted up the base of his spine. It was like riding the lightning, channeling the storm. His Power roared over her as he convulsed and spent himself. She screamed as it catapulted her into a climax with him. She clenched on him with everything she had and shook so hard she thought she might shatter into pieces, and for a few moments she thought she knew what it must be like to be him, for she felt like she was flying.

He wrapped both arms tight around her and crushed her back against his chest.

Here was the necessary place. Now that he had reached it, he said, “Of course. Now I understand.” For the first time in his very long existence, Tiago knew what it meant to come home.

THIRTEEN

After several moments, his tight clench eased, and he carefully shifted his weight off of her. She collapsed forward, shaking. He rubbed her back. “I took you at your word, faerie,” he said, breathing hard. “Now you tell me you’re all right.”

All right? All right was an ice cream cone on a warm afternoon, a press conference in which nothing disastrous happened, or hell, just a day that passed without her uncle succeeding in killing her. She was far too complicated for just all right. She was deliriously happy, outrageously scared and completely immobilized.

“I’m fine,” she said into the cushion. “But all my muscles have turned to Jell-O. I could use some help.”

He kissed her shoulder. “Of course. Just a sec.”

She could hear a pleased smile in his voice, and it sounded very male, which in turn made her smile.

He cleaned her with a cloth, his touch light and gentle. “That better not be your shirt, you lunatic, because thanks to you I’ve got nothing else to wear,” she murmured. She yawned. So many things seemed impossible. Walking. Getting from here to, well, anywhere. Making a decision. Facing other people.

She grimaced at that thought. Ew, actually.

He told her, “I’m using the inside of your dress.”

“Okay.” When he finished, she managed to push off the couch. She wasn’t kidding about having muscles made of Jell-O. Everything trembled.

He handed her his shirt. She turned the wadded material over in her hands, as her exhausted mind tried to deal with locating the neck and armholes. By the time she had it figured out and had pulled the shirt over her head, Tiago already had his pants zipped and was buckling his belt. The indirect light shining from the hall limned the wide arc of his back and shoulders, and one high cheekbone and lean cheek. He armed himself again with the two guns and the knife in its thigh sheath. He looked completely comfortable with the arm holsters strapped across his bare chest. He rotated his shoulders to settle them into place.