The Wicked (Elder Races #5.5)(23)

The line of her slender, exposed throat cut him loose. Control skidded away, and he turned into an animal. She cried out as he grabbed her by the waist, lifted and threw her onto the nearby bed. Then he sprang. He was on her so fast her body didn’t have time to bounce on the mattress. With rough, jerky movements he undid the fastening of her jeans and yanked them down her hips.

While he worked on undressing her, she took hold of his T-shirt and pulled, her hands shaking with urgency. He barely noticed until it restricted the movements of his arms. Then he had to pause, growling, to yank his shirt over his head. As he did so, she sat up and ran her palms down the extended length of his muscled torso to the fastening of his jeans. Her trembling fingers fumbled at the button.

He put his hands over hers and squeezed. “I’ve got it,” he muttered.

“Hurry.”

That single word, said in such an agonized whisper, sent a line of fire down his spine.

He rolled away from her and tore off his clothes. When he reached for her again, he found that she had finished kicking her jeans and panties off and was naked too.

He fell on her ravenously. The sense of her naked, curvaceous body against his sent a wave of heat over his skin. He yanked her thighs apart and felt between her legs. Under a soft tangle of short hair, her private flesh felt plump and swollen, slick with wetness, and his erection tightened until it was an actual pain. She smelled and felt like an invitation. He came down on her and positioned his c**k at her drenched, fluted entrance.

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he knew this wasn’t the way to go about doing things. He hissed, “Foreplay.”

Way to class it up, dickhead.

She gasped, “Next time.”

She pulled at his shoulders and arched her pelvis up. He threw back his head and thrust into her. Her slick passage gripped him tighter than a fist. He shook his head, growling as he trembled all over, trying to give her time to adjust to his abrupt invasion.

But then she squeezed him with her inner muscles and undulated her sexy body so that he slid out partway and then back in, and he descended completely into madness.

He grabbed her by the hair and rutted on her. She cried out and clawed at his back, trying to draw him in deeper as she lifted herself for every thrust.

“Are you going to bite me or not?” he snarled.

She bared her teeth at him. She looked as crazed as he felt. Then she twisted at her torso and sank her teeth into his biceps. She bit him so hard he felt her little teeth break the skin.

Delight suffused him, along with a fierce, feral satisfaction. Still f**king her, he slid an arm underneath her shoulders to lift her up. Then he bit her too, sinking his teeth into the hollow where her neck met her shoulder. He pumped in, and in, and she clenched her arms and legs around him as her body jerked and shuddered, and he felt her climax in a ripple of intense contractions.

She brought him along with her. Bending his head to the pillow beside her head, his own climax spewed out of him convulsively. As she shivered and groaned, it pulled more of him, wave upon wave of frenzied pleasure.

Gradually they stilled, their bodies slick with sweat. Her breathing sounded in his ear, ragged gasps like shallow sobs. As he buried his face against her, she hooked an arm around his neck to hold him loosely.

She had linked her ankles together at the small of his back. He lifted his head and looked down at her. She gave him a vulnerable, luminous smile. Her expression was utterly gorgeous. When she started to open her legs to let him go, he gripped her thigh.

Her breath hitched.

He whispered against her lips, “I’m not done yet.”

Chapter Eight

He broke her wide open, until something raw and trembling and utterly new crawled out of her old, outdated skin, and it was more fierce and possessive than she had ever been before.

She watched out her window as predawn gradually lightened her bedroom. Then she curled on her side facing Sebastian. He slept stretched out on his stomach, his head half buried by pillows. Even though the room was chilly, he had pushed the blankets down to his hips.

Her gaze followed the peaks and hollows of his wide shoulders and biceps and down his muscled back. His tanned skin bore the marks she had made on him, long scratches on his back and the reddened bite mark on his arm, already fading.

She lifted the covers to look at herself. He had marked her too. Bruises dotted her hips and thighs, and the bite he had given her, at the juncture of her neck, felt tender and sensitive to the touch. But she was only human, and the marks on her body would not be as quick to fade.

She slipped a hand between her legs. She felt throbbing and sore below too. He had spent himself on her again and again, and he had wrung more climaxes out of her than she had ever thought possible. And she was fiercely glad for all of it.

She also knew what that could mean. It was possible—just barely possible—that he might be beginning to mate with her. It was too soon to know, of course. It was too soon for everything. Only time could tell if he would mate with her, or if he would pull away, or if this complete, full-blown obsession she had developed for him would turn out to be love.

But she thought, at least in her case, that it was the beginnings of falling in love. She really thought it was. He was fine and fierce, complicated and quite extraordinary, and the strength of emotion and vulnerability he had shown to her surpassed anything she had ever experienced from anyone else. He engaged all of her senses, emotions and intellect in a perfect trifecta.