59. Annabella #3
He settled between my legs and pressed his mouth to the inside of my thigh. The scrape of his stubble made me shudder.
“I’ve been wanting to do this since we got back.” He pressed another kiss higher. Closer. “Every time you are near, I’ve wanted to put you on the nearest flat surface and—”
“Then do it.”
He put his mouth on me.
No warm-up. His tongue found my clit and worked it with a focus that made my hips lift off the bed and my hand slam flat against the headboard. His hands gripped my thighs—spreading me open, holding me there—and I grabbed for his hair because I needed something solid.
He knew my body. Knew exactly where to press, how hard, when to use his tongue flat and when to use the tip. Through the bond, he tracked every spike of sensation and adjusted; faster when my hips chased him, slower when I got too close too fast.
“Don’t you dare slow down—”
He pulled his mouth away just enough to speak. “You taste unreal. I could stay here all night.”
“You cannot stay there all night. I will lose my mind—”
He laughed. The vibration against my most sensitive skin made me actually whimper, which was a sound I would deny to my dying day.
Then he sucked my clit between his lips and pushed two fingers inside me and curled them, and the dual sensation whited out my brain.
His tongue pressed harder. My magic flared and fed the bond, and the bond fed the pleasure, and the whole thing spiraled beyond anything purely physical—
I came with his name in my mouth and silver warmth flooding my veins, a deep, rolling glow under my skin that I felt more than saw.
He worked me through it. Gentler. Easing me down until my thighs stopped shaking and my hands unclenched from his hair.
When he lifted his head, his face was wet, and his eyes were solid gold and he looked like a man who’d won something.
“More,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. “I want you inside me.”
He crawled up my body. Kissed me, and I could taste myself on his mouth. His cock was hard against my thigh.
“Turn over, Moonbeam.”
His hands found my waist. Flipped me onto my stomach with a controlled strength that made my wolf hum with approval. I pushed up onto my hands and knees and looked back at him over my shoulder.
The look on his face. The way his hands closed around my hips, possessive, reverent, like he couldn’t believe I was real and right here and his.
“I want you to feel this tomorrow,” he said. “I want you to go into that fight with the ache of me still inside you. You want that?”
Fuck, yeah, I wanted that.
“Yes.”
“Say please, Moonbeam,” he ordered.
I didn’t hesitate. “Please, Sam.”
His response was to position himself and thrust into me in one stroke.
I cried out—from the angle, from the depth, from the way his body curved around mine.
He set a hard pace from the first stroke, his hips snapping forward.
The sounds of our bodies slapping against each other echoed around the room.
His hand slid around to find my clit. His other hand gripped the back of my neck—not pushing me down, just holding, using it as leverage to drive himself harder into me, and the possessiveness of it made me even wetter.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” His mouth was at my ear, his body blanketing mine from behind. Even now—even with his cock buried to the hilt and his pace brutal enough to rattle the headboard—he checked.
“More, I want more.”
A sound came out of him that was half groan, half growl. He pulled back and drove in deeper. Found a new angle. The headboard banged against the wall—once, twice, three times.
“You’re so fucking tight from this angle.” His voice was barely recognizable. “You have no idea what you look like right now. The light on your skin—”
I gathered the magic coiling at the base of my spine and drove it into him through the bond. Not a wave this time but a pulse, sharp and concentrated, timed to hit at the deepest point of his thrust.
His rhythm shattered. His fingers dug into my hip hard enough to leave marks.
“Again,” he managed.
I grinned against the pillow and obliged, as his thrusts went harder, faster, his teeth finding the curve where my neck met my shoulder. He bit down, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to claim. The plaster behind the headboard cracked. Neither of us cared.
His fingers worked faster between my legs. His thrusts went deeper. The bond between us pulled tight, tight, tight—
We crashed over the edge at the same time. His arm locked around my waist, holding me against him while we both came apart. My magic blazed and the bond sang with it, and I reveled in feeling everything he felt, the pleasure, the relief, the fierce and desperate love underneath it all.
He held me through the aftershocks. His face buried against my neck. His body curved around mine like armor.
“The wall,” he mumbled after a while.
I opened my eyes. Looked at the headboard.
There was a definite dent in the plaster. A crack spreading from it like a spiderweb.
“We’re gonna have to get that fixed,” I said.
“Totally worth it.”