Her pussy was a revelation. Her body was everything.
The throbbing in his length commanded him to move his hips—to rub his shaft, to sink it, to penetrate her wet core with cock instead of tongue. He fucked the sheets, rutting the bed in a frenzy. Anything for the agonizing pressure to end. Friction burned the crown, the slit. His heavy balls drew up.
About to come already? Control it, hold off!
She was peaking again, and he wanted more of her luscious honey. “AGAIN!” he ordered, clawing her ass.
She obeyed with a wanton cry, bucking against his probing tongue to give it to him.
Sensation coursed up and down his spine. His shaft jerked violently between the mattress and his torso. Pleasure lashed him, so much pleasure . . . so much—
He gave a brutal groan against her slippery, plump pussy.
RELEASE.
He threw back his head. His yell was a fucking war bellow—as wave after wave seized his body, flinging him to some place he’d never been before.
He was out of control. Control was a jest. He surrendered. Shattered.
His back bowed, his cock pulsating as if to shoot seed. Heart-stopping tremors . . .
On and on and on.
Gradually that exquisite pressure relented, and his yell ebbed in his chest. As the world spun, he lay with his head on her pale, trembling thigh, heaving his breaths. Only the two of them existed; he was certain.
He licked his lips, her taste proving what he’d experienced was real. An hour passed, a day, an age. He didn’t care; he needed to rest. Not because he was sated—solely because his release had seemed to alter him.
“Rune?”
Her drawling voice roused him. What the hells had he done? So much was at stake, and he hadn’t even asked a single question!
With effort, he sat up. Making it to his knees, he swiped his forearm over his mouth. He’d seen her naked and lost his godsdamned mind—as if he hadn’t been doing this his entire life. As if he didn’t pride himself on his prowess.
He’d come from rutting the sheets. How the old queen would laugh. He gritted his fangs. Get control of the situation. Begin anew.
He surveyed Josephine’s body for the next round. Where was his clinical detachment? For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what sexual thing he wanted to do next. Bed sport had always been about limitations—can’t do that, can’t touch that, can’t put my mouth there.
Now the options were dizzying. His repertoire hadn’t prepared him for this. “Good. We got that out of the way.” His voice sounded off. Strained. From his war bellow.
Still panting, she said, “I was so close to telling you everything. No, really. Swear.” She flashed him that bedazzling smile. “Next time I’m sure I will. Should we get to it?”
Rune was going to make her eat her words. “You’ve just made me that much more determined, vampire.”
TWENTY-TWO
Maybe Jo shouldn’t have taunted the dark fey. Over what had to be hours, or even days, he’d teased her mercilessly.
Again and again, he would take her right to the edge, patiently toying with her. Whenever she reached the very brink, he backed off. At times, he would nick himself, spicing the air just to make her insane.
Her body from the waist down was one tender ache. The cuffs had chafed her wrists. Her eyes were wet with pink tears, her mind reeling.
But . . .
She was a woman of flesh—a yearning, empty, horny woman. And she loved it.
Releasing his suck on a nipple, he leaned up over her breasts, his expression ominous. He’d questioned her as he tormented her, to no avail. “You must be so thirsty.” He sliced the pad of his forefinger.
The scent hit her. Her thirst scalded her. “Just a taste, Rune. . . .” Her claws dug into her palms till her own blood spilled. With a cry, she punctured her bottom lip with a fang.
“Tell me anything about Nïx.”
She shook her head. “Can’t.”
He ran his bleeding finger across her chest, painting her. His blood was searing, a brand over her skin. He traced it over one swollen nipple, and she could only moan.
He eased down her body, making himself comfortable between her thighs once more.
She whimpered, anticipating what was to come—namely, not her.
“Look at your lush little slit.” He’d discovered what his dirty talk did to her. “My cock would fill you to the brim, vampire, have you screaming for mercy.” He tickled her opening with his tongue, French-kissing it. “For now, do you need my fingers fucking you, dove?”
“Yes, fucking me!”
He slipped in one, and her needy core clenched it, her body trying to capture it.
“Your pussy’s nice and tight.” His voice was so deep, like the thrust of a finger. “Good call not to fuck yet.”
Yet.
He curled that finger inside her. “Here’s something you’ll enjoy.” He stroked one . . . specific . . . spot.
Bursts of light appeared before her eyes. “Ohmygodyesmore!” He’d done it—he’d made her see stars.
“That’s it, baby.” Over and over, he rubbed that spot. “Getting so wet for me. Doesn’t it feel good?”
“Uh-huh—AHHH!”
He leaned down to tongue her clit while rubbing inside.
Some woman was spluttering nonsensical words and sounds. Me?
In a lower tone, he said, “Need more, Josie?”
When he called her Josie her toes curled. She nodded. All I am is need. She was need in the shape of Jo.