The Dream Crafter(62)

And now his mouth came down, circling the nipples, playing with different tempos and pressure until he found one that had her crying out.

He was in front of her pussy and he was spreading her out, looking at her. A fierce heat covered her face, and she reached down, “Don’t.”

He paid her no mind. Instead, he dove in, his tongue swiping over her, fucking inside her and eating out the combined taste of her and him.

A heat grew within her, a tension she never felt, and she flexed her hips away but he held her still, his tongue swirling over her clit as his fingers worked inside her.

She was babbling, strange sounds escaping her mouth as the tension filled her body, ratcheting up and up, and he didn’t leave her, he didn’t let her escape, didn’t let her cries or hands or hips dissuade him from his objective. There was only his mouth and that wonderful tongue, reaching unknown places and causing feelings she’d never experienced with anyone else.

Everything went tight, tight, tight, and then she exploded, her body jerking high and every cell seizing within her, electricity racing through nerves and blood and bone, and pleasure like she’d never known filled every empty spot, overheating her.

Small jerks of her body, and petting her hip, and time meant nothing, and opening heavy lids, Merc became clear, kissing her stomach and moving rough, calloused fingertips over her.

“There you are,” he said, and her gaze met his, the heat of his gaze, the satisfaction, the want all for her.

*

She was stunning in her pleasure, her body sweet and alive and fucking gorgeous as she came, tightening around him like a vise.

Once again, he banked down the anger that threatened to overwhelm him. She wouldn’t understand why the thought of her being resigned to not feeling any pleasure would piss him off. He didn’t want her to take it like she was somehow in the wrong.

Her breathing was beginning to regulate, and he kissed her stomach again, the sweat on her skin mingling with their combined taste in his mouth.

She was beginning to calm down. Time to wind her up and start all over.

He spread her wide, hooking her legs over his arms, spearing her with his cock.

He pushed into her hard and fast, against that spot that had her arching and gasping against him. Tucking one leg around his hip, he slid his hand between their bodies and rubbed against her clit while inside he rubbed against her.

Her head fell back and she screamed, and her whole body went vise tight around him, the single greatest sensation his dick had ever known. He pushed into her once, twice, three times to come inside her again, where she was shuddering and welcoming beneath him, where her stunned cries were loud in his ear and her shaky body rubbed against him in the right way.

He came in her, and it felt like he came home.





Chapter Thirty-Three




‡


Amana woke from a dreamless sleep in the exact same position she had been in before – with a mercenary wrapped around her, his arm over her waist and his half-hard cock pressed against her ass.

This time, though, her body was sore in the best way possible, areas stretched and bruised from Merc’s mouth and body on and in hers.

The sun was high, suggesting it was around noon. She lifted her head to see the clock, but her movement disturbed him, had him snuffling in tighter to her.

She settled back in his arms. She wasn’t going to fall back asleep, but she wasn’t hungry and didn’t need to use the washroom, so there was no reason not to stay here until he woke.

Which was about a minute later, whether it was because she woke him or something had disturbed them both together. He moved behind her, his arm tightening around her waist. “Good morning.”

“More like good afternoon.”

“Either way, it’s very good.”

Smiling, she bumped her hip back into his. Instead of returning the motion, he pulled her back into a full body hug, so that there wasn’t an inch of their bodies that weren’t linked somehow. She laughed. “You seem to be in a happy mood.”

“I can be depressed later. Right now nothing can bring me down.”

Since that was how she felt, she couldn’t blame him. She was wrapped in his arms, surrounded by him like she’d wanted to be from their first moments together.

For not the first time, thoughts raced through her head about how right he had felt from the first moment, how she’d wanted nothing but him with a strength that was frightening, ridiculous. And for not the first time, what exactly she was capable of filtered through her mind. Did she somehow bring him to her, find him, because he was perfect for her? Did her power seek him out because she’d been wishing for him? Was it a complete accident she found him? Or was this a type of Stockholm Syndrome, where everything she was feeling was false?