Sliding down her body a few inches, he settled his mouth above the nipple, and began to trace the areola, all around that stiff point, as if he were licking away icing in truth, in lazy circles and brief, sucking bites.
His body was pressed down on her pubic mound, and when he began doing that, she lost all control. She would have arched against him, writhed and rubbed, anything to get closer, to get more of what she wanted, but he was too clever for that. He used his hands to press down on her shoulders, keeping her immobilized for his ministrations.
Please, please, please . . .
“Please what, Elisa?” He spoke against her this time, and she shuddered at the way the words added to the stimulation.
“I need you . . . inside me. Please.”
“Hmm.” And he went back to what he was doing. She struggled; she cried out with every lash of his tongue, and outright screamed when his mouth closed over the nipple thoroughly, finally pulling on her in deep, dragging rhythms. She was trying hard to move her lower body against him, to get some type of friction. She was so wet, her fluids dampened that pocket between her sex and thigh, trickling down onto her buttocks.
She heard the various calls, growls and huffs of the nighttime hunters. The sawing notes of the leopards were closest. Even if they were in the very front yard, she wasn’t afraid. She knew Mal was aware of their proximity as well, and it was a titillating thought, to think the creatures could smell what they were doing and knew it for what it was. Animals mated out for all the world to see, and why not? God saw everything, no matter the curtains and closed doors. He’d seen what Mr. Collins had done to her, just the same as what Victor had done.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and those frustrated tears ran down the sides of her cheeks.
“Easy.” Mal cradled her face, and she pressed her mouth into his palm, willing it away. Then she bit, hard.
“Fierce cub.” He’d moved the nightgown to her hips, his other hand exploring her navel, the rise of her belly, the flare of her hips, fingers tracing the edge of the gown, inches above her pubic bone. “I think it’s time I unsheathe my claws a bit more, mark you with my scent.”
She knew it was merely the intensity of the moment, that the words probably didn’t mean anything special to him, but she couldn’t say the same. What had started as a peculiar stirring with Lady Danny, elevated to a romantic yearning with Willis, had been goaded to full blazing life by Mal in two days. He was right; she’d been thinking about it for a while, somewhere deep and hidden. He’d just opened the door to it, discovered her secret, showed it to her.
In her bedroom she’d said it in such a soft whisper. Master. God help her, she wanted to embrace what she’d seen other vampires’ servants accept, cloaking them with a confidence and surety, the knowledge that their Master or Mistress’s ownership was something nothing could tear away from them, because the choice to accept it had been all theirs.
His eyes were on fire, full of crimson. Rising onto his knees, he slid the gown all the way free. Cupping her under her hips, his fingers molded her arse as he pulled the fabric down. She watched the play of muscles along his abdomen and shoulders, the way the lioness on his arm rippled with golden strength as she played with those feathers. He’d chosen to put a female on his arm, acknowledging her strength and beauty.
He bent again, and as a picture of Dev and Danny flashed in her head, she knew what he was going to do. It was something no one ever had done to her. The others . . . they wanted her to do that to them, but never...
His mouth cruised over her pubic bone, circling that thatch of wet curls; then he found her damp entrance. He didn’t seal over it right away; he was far more diabolical than that. Instead he used the tip of his tongue again, teasing at that bud of flesh, the one that seemed to harbor such tremendous sensation, despite its small size. She moaned, her head thrashing back and forth on the grass, her hands gripping the blades, the earth, anything to hold herself down as he pushed down on her thighs, keeping her lower body captive to his desires. She couldn’t buck against him, and that made the sensations that much more excruciating.
In some vague section of her mind she knew she should be mortally embarrassed because there was no way the second-marked hands in the bunkhouse couldn’t hear her, her cries rising and falling, an erratic continual plea that only made him want to tease her more, a craving she knew she was feeding. It felt as if she was being drawn up far above herself, and in a moment, something was going to let go, and she was going to fly . . .
It’s possible for women, too. She saw Danny in the library, her head thrown back, upper body flushed as Dev did this to her. It was a quick, near-incoherent flash in her mind, for Mal knew the precipice on which she teetered, and he had control of it all.
Lifting his head, he balanced his upper body over her, his mouth a firm line, lips glistening with her response. The rigid line of his shoulders and that glittering, intent gaze, as well as the size of his arousal pressing against her, told her he wasn’t indifferent to her responses.
I’ll fuck you into next week, Irish flower. That’s how indifferent I am. I want them to hear. Want them to know I’ve had you.
The blunt words only made her tremble, long even more for him. Please. Do it. She would lie here for hours and days, take him into her body again and again to feel this way, this mindless, astonishing pleasure. It was the best she’d felt in so long.
He pulled open the front of his trousers in one efficient jerk; then he was lying down upon her, capturing her whole world by bracing his elbows on either side of her head. She turned her face into his forearm, inhaling that same earth and grass smell he’d scented on her.
No. Look me in the face. I want to see your eyes as I take you.
It was difficult, because she was learning how vulnerable a woman on the cusp of climax was, everything laid bare and unhidden. But she did it, locking gazes with him like a lifeline over raging whitewater. If that connection broke, she might be swept away in a storm where she’d never find her way home again. If she ever figured out where home was.
At the first touch of his cock to her entrance, a frisson of terrible memory went through her, making her shiver, but then he did something extraordinary. Like a picture show where everything went from very fast to very slow, he cupped her face, passing a thumb over her lips, a gesture fast becoming familiar. His eyes were so close, holding her in a still blink of time, where there was only the thundering of their hearts, their bodies trembling on the edge, so close, every part of her against every part of him. Connected, together. She wasn’t alone. They were in this together. Then he closed the distance, put his mouth against hers, that light butterfly landing again, his tongue teasing her lips.
She let out a plaintive sound against his mouth, but she stayed still as that broad head pushed inside of her. He was thicker than the others had been, and longer, but as he sank deep into soaked flesh, that fullness became a deep, savage pleasure in the pit of her belly, the aching of her breasts, pressed against his hard chest.
All mine. The words came on a wind gusting through her as he withdrew enough to surge back in and stroke that part of her waiting for one electric touch of friction, a detonator.
“Oh . . .” Her mouth convulsed against his, as a similar involuntary reaction took over her body. “Mal . . .”
“Come for me, Elisa. Let me hear you scream. Grip my cock as hard as you can.”
Without thinking, she did, muscles spasming around him as he went to a long thrust and retreat, something that dragged against that part of her that was overtaking all the rest, making her nails dig into his bare shoulders, her upper body coming off the ground to bury her face into his throat. She sank her teeth into his pectoral as he palmed the back of her head in one large hand and rocked with her, pumping deep and hard, making her feel the strength of every thrust, muscles rippling under her hands.
It was astounding, incredible, a taste of what Heaven had to be, this divine euphoria, yet so close to the earth, so visceral she wanted to taste his blood and flesh as she experienced it.
She also wanted him to release, wanted to feel the flood of his seed inside of her. It was something she’d never thought about wanting. She wanted to feel his heat and life coming into her. Vampire babies were so rare, vampires never used protection, because if a baby was conceived, it was always a treasured miracle. So she could feel him come into her without serious worry of that. Not that anything was worrying her at the moment.
In fact, all thought deserted her as he did climax, and the pressure of him jetting against still-spasming tissues sent her over another precipice, even higher than what she’d been experiencing. She did scream, over and over, the feeling too much for her to have any restraint. When she caught a glimpse of his face, it was rigid with his own pleasure . . . and the fierce satisfaction of pure male possession.
She didn’t quite know what to say when they’d caught their breath, or what to do, but he helped her on both counts. Sliding next to her on the grass, he turned her so she was spooned inside the shape of his body, his breath on her neck. She folded both her hands around his one, a loose tangle of fingers against her breasts, his thumb idly tracing the curve within his range. Nothing really needed to be said, right? It wasn’t a moment to profess undying love. She had no expectations. Things inside of her were quiet, exhausted, girlish yearnings and romantic ideas muted by pure physical satiation. She found it wasn’t an unpleasant place to be.
What girlish yearnings would those be, Irish flower? He pressed his mouth to her throat, and she let the thrill of it unfold lazily inside of her, the promise of more desire, more mindlessness.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Just let this moment be . . . what it is. Please?”
He held his mouth there, his arms tightening around her, but he said nothing more, inside or out. At length, though, he rose, pulling his trousers back on. She was modest enough to lie curled on her side, but hungry enough to tilt her head to watch him, the play of muscle and limb, the gleam of moonlight on his skin. The way his genitals looked, cupped briefly in his hand before he tucked them back into the jeans. He hadn’t been wearing underwear, either.