Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply(53)

And that was the part—that he was different, that he could make my heart pound and my blood thicken, that an inexplicable tenderness wound through the heat and dark of my lust—well, that was the scary part. I suddenly wanted to get the whole sex thing over with. I was afraid this moment might mean more if we actually took the time to enjoy each other. And really, did we have the time? “We could just . . . you know, do it.”

He met my gaze. “No.”

He took precious minutes to unlace my boots and take them and my socks off. Then he returned and grasped the top of my pants. Before I realized what my body was agreeing to do, I’d lifted my hips and allowed him to shimmy my pants and underwear off.

Talk about feeling vulnerable! There I was with my lower half exposed to the hungry gaze of a werewolf. And he was fully clothed, which somehow made my capitulation more submissive—and erotic.

But he wasn’t finished.

Through my thin shirt, he cupped my breasts, stroking and molding. My nipples puckered, aching to be touched, to be kissed. But Drake tormented me for hours, days, eons, before pushing my shirt up, then reaching around to unsnap the bra. I realized he wasn’t going to take off my shirt or bra, if only because it might bump against the makeshift bandage on my hand.

His gaze feasted on my flesh. He just . . . looked. And my body responded with a terrible ache, a need so great that I trembled. He made that happen without even touching me. Then, oh, then, he circled one finger around my aureola, teasing my nipple with a flutter of a single fingertip. He moved to my other breast and tormented it just the same.

For the longest of moments, he did only those featherlight touches. And the only sounds echoing in the chamber were my harsh intakes of breath.

My stomach quivered.

I ached for more of his touch, but I didn’t ask. I wanted to beg, really, but I stayed silent. He placed his hands on either side of me, and leaned down, his gaze intent. He captured my gaze, kept it hostage, and continued a slow downward arc to my breasts.

His lips closed over one hardened peak.

I made a noise I don’t think I’ve ever made before—a cry of need and a sigh of longing tangled together.

Then he sucked my nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling against the sensitive flesh.

A low moan rose from my throat. He cupped my other breast and lightly pinched that nipple while using his tongue to torment the other.

I clenched the furs with shaking fingers, and I moaned again.

He released my breasts, his fingers dragging down the sides of my rib cage as his lips kissed inch after inch of my flesh. He took his time, as if we had all the time in the world, and I swear I nearly melted.

I’d heard women refer to feeling like they were “afire” during lovemaking. I knew what it took to reach orgasm. I mean, pleasure was pleasure, right? And I’d always believed that the term “making love” was for people intent on romanticizing a normal biological function.

But I’d never felt this way.

I’d never had a lover who wanted to devour me. Given that he was a werewolf, that phrase had a whole new meaning.

I was awash in sensations that ebbed and flowed like ocean waves hitting the beach. Wow. I was so overwhelmed with how Drake made me feel, I couldn’t even come up with an original metaphor.

Drake’s hands coasted to my hips; his mouth pressed on the skin above my pubic bone. He paused there, long enough to drag his fingers over my thighs, and then he pushed my legs up and settled into a prime position. My feet now rested on his back.

He layered kisses on the inner edges of my thighs. I was already slick, and my very core trembled as he stroked the flesh with lips and tongue. Just the edges, too. Never the center, where the ache bloomed and need pulsed.

Bastard.

I released the furs, my fingers digging into his beautiful hair. He murmured something in German, and the words vibrated against my agitated flesh.

“Oh, God!”

He lifted his head, that wicked gleam made brighter with his own desire. Then he said, “You can just call me Drake.”

I bopped the top of his head. “I’ll call you dead if you don’t—”

He slipped his tongue inside my swollen flesh, and rendered me speechless. He tasted me fully, and his tongue flicked over my entrance, then back up . . . and down again.

My erratic breathing hitched even more, and my body, already afire, damn it, seemed to burn even hotter.

His hot breath ghosted over my clit.

Then he sucked the sensitive nub into his mouth and flicked it with his tongue.

I think I blacked out for a second.

I couldn’t remember sex being like this before. Either Drake was really, really good, or I’d picked some really bad lovers.

Pleasure spiderwebbed through me, gossamer strings that pulled taut, that felt electric. I could barely stand being in my own skin.