59. Annabella #2
His hands slid under my shirt. Palms dragging up my sides, fingers spread wide like he was trying to touch all of me at once.
I pulled back long enough to strip the shirt off, the bra after it, and his hands closed around both breasts—firm, possessive—before his mouth went to the hollow between them.
He kissed his way across to one nipple and caught it between his teeth, a scrape of pressure that made me jerk in his lap as the heat of it shot straight to my core.
I arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders, grinding down on the ridge of him through his jeans.
The friction was maddening; too much fabric, not enough pressure.
“Off,” I said, tugging at his waistband. “These need to be off.”
He lifted his hips. I dragged the jeans and boxers down far enough and wrapped my hand around him.
Howling hell. The weight of him in my palm, the heat. I stroked him once—slow, root to tip—and he made a sound like I’d punched the air out of his lungs.
“Fucking hell, Annabella—”
I slid off the couch. Knelt between his legs; I wanted to taste him. I needed to taste him.
He looked down at me and his whole body went taut. Through the bond, a wall of want so raw it made my wolf snarl in response.
I ran my tongue along the underside of his cock, base to tip, and his hand fisted in the couch cushion hard enough that the leather creaked. I took him into my mouth. Hollowed my cheeks and sucked as his hips fought to stay still.
“Fuck—! Moonbeam—”
I took him deeper. Set a rhythm, absolutely loving the taste of him, the smell of him, the sounds he was making as my tongue flicked the tip of his cock with each stroke. Then his hand found my hair and he pulled. Not rough, but deliberate. Insistent. Tipping my head back so I had to look at him.
His eyes were blown wide now. The muscles in his stomach tense and trembling.
“Up.” The word was scraped raw. “Come here.”
“I wasn’t finished.”
“I need—” He pulled me up, both hands under my arms, hauling me back into his lap with an easy strength that made me purr. “I need to touch you.”
He kissed me hard, his hands everywhere, my breasts, my ribs, my ass, like he couldn’t decide what to hold onto. Then one hand slid between us, undid my jeans, and his fingers found me through the cotton of my underwear.
The sound I made wasn’t dignified. Neither was the way my hips jerked against his hand.
“That’s what I thought.” His voice was low. Rough. His fingers pushing the fabric aside, stroking through the slick heat of me. “You’re fucking drenched.”
“Your fault.”
“I take full credit.” He circled my clit with his thumb, slow, precise, learning my body all over again. “Every time I touch you—” He slid two fingers inside me and I bit down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. “—you react like that. Fucking beautiful.”
“Sam—”
“Stand up.”
I did. My legs were shaking. He hooked his fingers in my jeans and underwear and pulled them down. I kicked them off. Stood naked in front of him in the firelight, my chest heaving, my hair wild around my shoulders.
He looked at me. Took his time about it, too, his eyes moving over me like he was memorizing this. The streak in my hair. My breasts. The flat plane of my stomach. The wet mess he’d made between my thighs.
“Get back in my lap.”
His hands closed around my wrists and he guided me back over him. Positioned me exactly where he wanted me, my knees on either side of his hips, his cock pressed against my center, slick and ready.
“This is where I want you,” he said. “Right here. Looking at me. I want to watch your face when I’m fucking you.”
I reached between us. Positioned him. And sank down.
Slow. Inch by inch. The stretch of him filling me, familiar now, but still enough to make my breath stutter. I braced my hands on his chest and took all of him, and when I was fully seated, when I had every inch and could feel him so deep it was almost too much, I held still.
His hands flexed on my hips. His jaw was clenched, muscles standing out in his neck. Through the bond, the exquisite pressure of restraint. Of wanting to move and choosing to let me adjust.
“You feel—” His voice cracked. “Annabella—”
I started to move.
Slow at first. Rolling my hips, finding the angle that hit the spot inside me that made sparks race up my spine. His hands followed my rhythm, guided but didn’t push. For about two minutes, he let me lead, let me find what I needed, set the pace, take my pleasure.
Then his hands tightened.
“My turn,” he said, and thrust up into me.
The shift was instant, from my pace to his, and his pace was relentless. His hands locked on my hips and he drove up into me from underneath, using the couch for leverage, his feet planted flat on the floor. Each thrust was deep and deliberate and hit the exact spot I’d been chasing.
“Hands behind my neck,” he said.
I obeyed. The position arched my back, changed the angle, pushed my breasts toward his mouth. He took one nipple between his teeth—just enough pressure to make me gasp—while his hips never broke rhythm.
Magic bloomed under my skin. Warmth building, spreading. I didn’t fight it. I let it rise, let it wrap around both of us.
The first time, my magic had gone wild and chaotic, out of my control. This was different. This was integrated. My magic moved with purpose—flowing where I directed it, intensifying the connection between us.
He groaned and dropped his head back against the couch.
I shifted my angle, grinding forward on every downstroke so the base of him pressed exactly where I needed it.
His hands gripped my hips and held me there, locked in that angle, every thrust dragging against the perfect spot.
The pressure built from the inside out, the relentless friction of his body against mine and my magic pouring through the bond like lighter fluid on a fire.
“There—Right there —” I gasped. “Harder —”
“You want harder? Take it.” His voice was wrecked and commanding at the same time. “Come on my cock, Moonbeam. I want to feel you break.”
The orgasm built fast, a tight, spiraling heat that wound through my magic and the bond and every point where his body met mine.
His thumb pressed harder. His thrusts went deeper.
And I broke apart, the pleasure ripping through me while my magic blazed bright enough to fill the room with shifting shadows.
I felt his control shatter. Not gradually, but all at once, like a dam giving way.
His hips drove up into me, and his pleasure hit me.
My magic caught it, amplified it, and hurled it back at him.
He swore, grabbed my hips, and came with his face buried against my throat.
I followed him over the edge again, and this time the pleasure was so tangled between us I couldn’t have pointed to where his ended and mine began.
I collapsed onto his chest as his arms came around me. Our hearts hammered against each other through bone and skin.
For a long time, neither of us moved. Just breathed. The fire popped. My magic dimmed to a faint shimmer.
“Ow,” Sam said eventually.
I lifted my head. “Ow?”
“Rug burn. On my ass.” He shifted underneath me, wincing. “This is what I get for not insisting on the bedroom.”
“You’re on the couch, not the rug.”
“The leather is sticking to my skin. Same principle.” He kissed my forehead. “I’m also not moving. My legs don’t work.”
I laughed.
“Bed,” I said.
“Did you not hear me, Moonbeam. I can’t feel my legs.”
“Shifter stamina. You’ll recover.”
“You broke me.”
“You’ll live.”
I pushed up off his chest, stood, offered him a hand. He took it. Let me pull him to his feet.
Sam’s room had the LEGO Star Wars AT-AT on his desk, which would have made me laugh if his hands hadn’t already been on me—one at the small of my back, the other in my hair, turning me gently toward the bed.
“Shifter stamina’s kicked in,” he said against my ear, walking me backward. The backs of my knees hit the mattress.
I grinned. I was learning that there were a lot of advantages to Shifter stamina.
He eased me down onto the bed, lay me back, his body following, hovering over me on his forearms. “I just want you like this for a minute.”
He looked at me. Really looked. Traced the silver root at my temple with his thumb. Followed the line of my jaw. My collarbone.
“You’re beautiful.” He moved down my body with the kind of unhurried focus that made me want to scream.
My throat, the hollow between my collarbones, the curve of each breast. His tongue traced the underside of one, then the other, lazy and thorough, and I gripped the sheets because the gentleness after the intensity downstairs was its own kind of torture.
“Sam—”
“Patience.”
“I don’t have patience. That’s never been—”
“I know.” He smiled against my skin. Kept going. His mouth mapped my ribs. My stomach. The jut of my hipbone.