Netherworld: Drop Dead Sexy(78)

I could have lingered like that all day, gently raising and lowering over him, watching his bliss slowly climb in response. Dan didn’t have that kind of patience, however. After awhile, the slow intercourse made him eager for more. Just as I knew it would.

“Faster, Brandilynn,” he breathed, his eyes half-closing in anticipation.

“I’m in no hurry,” I answered. I kept the steady pace I’d established.

“Come on, baby girl,” he urged. “I know you’ve got to be on fire too.”

I was, but he didn’t need to know that. “No topping from the bottom,” I chastised, pinching the flat disc of his nipple. “Be a good boy and mind me.”

Dan growled at me like a shifting were. I grinned and moved slower still. If Dan was half the Dom I thought he was, he wouldn’t put up with this much longer.

What most don’t get about the BDSM dynamic is that it’s the submissive who is in control. We can stop an encounter at any moment with our safewords. And we can drive a dominant lover into doing exactly what we want without making a single demand. Dan was about to learn a very important lesson.

“You’re not having fun?” I asked him, grinding a slow circle and constricting hard around him. I reached beneath my rear to caress his balls, which were drawing tight to his body. “I know I am. I should top more often.”

Dan’s jaw clenched. His grip on my breasts squeezed until a slight shock of pain sizzled down to my sex. Yes, my big, bad man was getting riled.

I rose until only the head of his cock remained inside me. I went completely still. Sneering down at Dan, I gloated, “You’re such a girl. Next time, I think I’ll make you wear a pink tutu and fairy wings.”

“Brandilynn.” His teeth gritted around my name.

“With sparkles. And lip gloss.”

Dan reared beneath me, a low roar pouring from his lips. His hands clasped my hips hard enough to have left marks on living flesh. He yanked me down brutally, spearing me with his rigid length, and then pushed me up again. Using that granite





muscle of his, he powered me up and down, taking me with amazing force. His cock found that beautiful spot inside me that lit me up like the Fourth of July.

I came hard, flopping over his driving body like a rag doll. He didn’t let up for a second, piledriving like he’d batter a hole right through the top of my skull. My shrieks rang through the sea-salt air as more fireworks poured through me.

Dan shouted as his rhythm faltered. He shouted again, his hips lifting me high off the ground while his hands pulled me down, making me take him as deep as I could. His cock jerked hard inside me as if trying to bash its way out. I came again.

I sagged over Dan, tiny orgasms tickling me in response to his sex’s every little twitch. His hand cracked a sharp report against my buttocks, sending more lovely ripples through me.

“The only lip gloss I’m wearing is what your mouth leaves on my cock. Understood?” His voice was raw from bellowing his climax.

“Yes Sir.” I smirked against his chest so he couldn’t see.

Dan’s tone gentled immediately. “Are you okay now, baby girl?”

I rubbed my cheek against the sprinkles of chest hair, giving my emotions the once-over. The void in my gut had departed, taking most of the agonizing grief with it. I was still shaky, but not nearly as hopeless. “I think I’m all right now. I’m sorry I lost it on you like that.”

His big hands were warm as they rubbed up and down my back. “Don’t worry, you’ll do it again.”

I propped my chin on his breast to give him a brave smile. “No, I think I’m done.”

Dan shook his head at me. “It comes back, especially when you least expect it. When it does, give yourself a break, baby. We all cry for the dead, especially when the dead is us.”

I didn’t want another repeat of the unbearable sorrow. There had to be a way to avoid it. Before I could tell Dan that, a muttering voice caught my attention. I looked around, trying to locate the source.

For the moment, we had Sanderson Cottage to ourselves. Even the bike path was empty right now. Still, the sound, like a woman humming a monotonous tune, grew louder.

“Who’s doing that?” I asked Dan.

“Doing what?”

“It sounds like singing.” I changed my mind as the voice grew louder still. “No, it’s chanting.”

Dan only looked confused. I sat up on my knees, and he levered up to look around us. He shook his head.

“You can’t hear that?” I said, and a rotting odor wafted into my nostrils. Like long-dead vegetation. Like rotting trees. Like a gator’s butt.





The pull in my gut confirmed my sudden horrified realization, and I recognized the voice doing the chanting as Erica Ford’s. Before I could scream a warning to Dan, a yanking sensation tore me away.