Last Hit(31)
“Kotehok,” I groan, releasing her breast. “I am desperate for you.”
Innocent though she may have been when we met, she is now a siren. Daisy sits up and removes her shirt. The motion causes her full breasts to bounce enticingly in front of me. With another swift motion, we rid her of the skirt and then we are skin to skin, flesh to flesh.
Taking myself in hand, I arrow into the hot, wet depths of her body. A groan of tremendous pleasure escapes me as I sink into the welcome embrace.
I push myself up on one arm to watch as I advance and retreat. My cock is shiny from her juice, and I shudder at the sight of her cunt swallowing every hard inch of me.
My hand traces the swell of her hip, the dip of her waist, and the high curves of her breasts. “I wish I had dozen hands and dozen mouths so that I could taste and touch every inch of your body while I fuck you.”
Her hands tremble at the base of my spine, but her hips grip me fiercely as I plunge into her time and again. Her mouth finds my shoulder, my neck. Her whimpers of pleasure slither under my skin and bake into my muscles, slide into my bloodstream until I am delirious with her delight.
I whisper my vows of devotion against her sweat-dampened skin as I pump against her. My hips spread her thighs farther apart. Some part of me recognizes I should slow down, be more gentle, but I cannot with her.
My desire runs too hot. My lust is too powerful. Between her legs is an aphrodisiac that severs my control and unleashes the animal inside. I want to throw back my head, beat my chest, and howl at the moon like a wolf who has captured its prey.
Yet I also want to lie under her warm hand, kiss her foot, and do nothing but live to protect her.
“Nikolai, my love,” she gasps, a thready, needy sound. I recognize its meaning, what she wants of me. Slipping a hand between us, I capture her clit between my fingers and pinch lightly. She rides my hand and cock fiercely until her ecstasy overtakes her and she comes apart in my arms. While she’s still quivering from her release, I pound into her, one hand braced by her head and the other latched to her hip, bringing her closer, closer, closer to me until it is I who is shouting and shaking as my come jets into her with the force of an unplugged dam.
Collapsing next to her, I murmur my love. “My heart, my Daisy, I love you. Only you. I cannot live without you.”
Tenderly she kisses me. “You won’t have to.”
Chapter 11
Daisy
My normal lunch table is empty.
I guess it’s not my “normal” lunch table, but ever since I’ve claimed Christine as a friend, it’s been our place to eat, talk, and share notes about our architecture class. Though I’ve done most of the sharing, I don’t mind. Christine is my friend, and if my giving makes her life easier, I will gladly do so. But today, she’s not here. Miserable, I wait as my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and extra banana-nut muffins go uneaten. Eventually, I trash them.
I don’t know what to do. I’m sure she’s avoiding me because of what happened at our last lunch. She’s embarrassed because she thinks I’m judging her.
I’m not. I’m judging Saul. Christine, though . . . I understand Christine. I know what it’s like to love someone but desperately hate their actions. My relationship with my father was like that until I ran away. He tried to control me, to squash down my rebellious tendencies. To hide me away from the world to keep me safe. And all the while, I plotted my escape. Christine might be plotting her own. The thought brightens my gloomy mood. If there’s a way I can help her, I will.
I start by pulling out my homework and making a copy of it. I change my writing so it looks more like Christine’s shaky hand and write her name at the top. I even change a few answers so they don’t match mine, and I feel quite proud of myself for being so sneaky.
When I get to class, I see Christine’s seat is empty. I sit in my regular one and worry until the bell rings, and the lecture begins. A moment later, Christine rushes into class and slides into her seat. My relief at her presence disappears. The bruise around her eye is nearly gone, but a fresh one circles her wrist just where her sleeve meets her hand.
As the professor comes around to pick up our homework, he extends his hand to Christine.
She gives a small, ashamed shake of her head. No homework.
My heart pangs in sympathy and I pretend to pick a paper up off the ground. “Here you go, Christine. You must have dropped this.”
Her eyes widen as she takes the paper from me, realizes what it is, and then hands it to the professor. He barely glances at it before heading down the aisle once more. I’m convinced he doesn’t actually look at our homework, just wants us to participate.