The Tomcats Tame the Domme [The Shifters of Catamount, Texas 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Josie Hunter

  She fell backward in complete surrender, and he took full advantage to pull her higher against his mouth. He nudged her panty aside and slid his tongue between her pussy lips to explore inside. With nothing on her clit, Rosa slid her hand between her legs and began to circle her clit while he fucked her with his tongue.

  “More,” she said breathlessly.

  He reached up and pushed a finger inside her hot, juicy pussy. She was so wet he knew she could take more. He pushed in another finger and began to fuck her in earnest as she swirled her own along her clit. When she tensed again, he knew she was close. Within moments, she exploded around his fingers, her pussy clenching and pulsing. He watched her chest rise and fall with deep breaths, and then she released a blissful sigh as she lifted.

  “Take me to the bedroom.”

  He gripped her hips and stood. Rosa wrapped her long dancer’s legs around his hips, pressed her face against his neck, and he carried her down a short hallway. The open door to his right held a twin bed, so he assumed it was the guest room. The next door was a bathroom, so that left the room at the end of the hall.

  Light spilled in from the hallway and filtered through the balcony door, spreading glittering lamplight over a bed covered in a thick white duvet and a room filled with more throw pillows than a linen store. They were piled high on the comforter, stacked on the hope chest, tossed onto the bench at the foot of the bed, and lining the window seat, displaying every color of the rainbow and every shape known to man. Some were plain, some had geometric designs, some held flowers, and still others had whimsical sayings on them. One read, “Always wear cute pajamas to bed. You never know who you’ll meet in your dreams.”

  He stood for a minute, pondering how to remove the pillows without releasing the beauty in his arms.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she whispered against his skin.

  “That you’re a pillow freak?” he asked with a laugh.

  “I know all these pillows is a bit strange, but I don’t generally bring men home.” She glanced up at him shyly. He hadn’t thought Rosa Santos had a shy bone in her body. “And I really like pillows.”

  “No kidding.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I think you’re adorable.”

  She pursed her lips. “I’m not sure I want to be adorable.”

  “Too bad then,” he said, “because you are.”

  “If I’m so adorable,” she asked with a smirk, “what are you waiting for? I have condoms in the drawer over there.” She nodded toward a small bedside table, amazingly pillow-free.

  His brow rose. “I thought you said you don’t bring men home.”

  “I said generally. I didn’t say never.” She studied him curiously. “I’m finding this whole thing a bit…strange.”

  “In what way?”

  “In a you-and-me way. We’re not exactly normal.”

  “Maybe not but does that mean we can’t try to be? Even if it’s just for one night?”

  He held his breath, hoping beyond hope he hadn’t gone a bit too far.

  “You’re right. I want to feel normal. I want to forget.”

  He’d hoped he’d already managed to drive that phone call from her mind, but if it took all night, he was determined to do so.

  “Put me down and take off your pants,” she said quietly. Her tone held that trace of the Domme he knew so well, and damn if he didn’t intend to listen.

  Her body slid down his, and she moved back toward the bed, sliding every sensuous inch of herself over the mattress and scattering pillows in her wake. He unbuttoned his pants and slid the zipper down as she watched his every movement. He toed off his shoes, dropped his pants, and stepped out of them. She licked her lips as she reached into the drawer for a condom, and he leaned forward, pulling the lacy thong down her slim legs.

  When his boxer briefs hit the floor and he’d rolled the condom onto his throbbing cock, Rosa wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into her with a desperation Robb understood. He bucked his hips forward, settling himself into the liquid heat of her pussy with a groan of appreciation. Or maybe thankfulness. He hadn’t thought he’d ever get this far with the Latin beauty, not without being under her whip and her control.

  He put his hands on both sides of her face, staring down into those incredible eyes, and he could see the mamba inside, straining to break free. The only way to control the snake was to ensnare her in a web of passion so hot she could concentrate on nothing else.

  Reaching behind him, Robb raised one of Rosa’s legs higher, giving him deeper access as he drove into her hard, unafraid of hurting her. She writhed under him, drawing him closer still, her sensuous limbs seeming to envelop him in a passionate enchantment.

  Her pussy was a cauldron of moist heat that inflamed Robb. He could feel his cock sliding effortlessly into that heavenly furnace as his balls tightened with an aching fullness he needed to release. But not yet. He’d only begun with the exotic beauty, and he had much more to give her before the night was finished. Robb vowed by the time he left, Rosa Santos would not be thinking of the earlier phone call from her father.

  Wrapping locks of her long hair around his fist, Robb put just enough pressure on the makeshift ponytail to hold Rosa’s head back. Then he dropped his face to her long neck, planting kisses down the sweet-scented skin until he reached her collarbone where he nipped her with his teeth, bringing a tiny drop of blood to the surface. His panther was inflamed with the need to mate in the raw, nearly warlike, fashion of most felines. Cats often made mating look more like a battle than an act of love, and in this case, given Rosa’s dominant streak, he might find himself in the biggest sexual battle of his life.

  With his foray into domination, Rosa responded in kind. When he sucked at the small injury he’d left on her perfect skin, she sank her nails into his back, raking them cruelly over his flesh and undulating under him with a fierceness that nearly drove Robb over the edge. As the pleasure-pain pierced his body, he groaned, wondering if there was anything this woman couldn’t do perfectly. She was his perfect match. Now all he had to do was convince her they belonged together.

  * * * *

  Rosa clutched at his shoulders, wondering when she’d lost her mind. She was lying in her own room—her personal space—with a man who should have been the last possible shifter in her bed. Not only was he a panther, he was a Dom, a man who could bring others to their knees in both sexual pleasure and complete submission. She’d heard enough stories about him at Clandestine to know they’d never get along for more than an hour in the bedroom, if even that.

  And yet, her heart was pounding with a dangerous rhythm, and her skin felt flushed, hot and warm every place he touched. The scent of him whirled around her in a maelstrom of delightful sensations, rolling through her body and sparking desire, want, lust through each and every molecule. Visions of the evening danced through her mind—the perfect dinner, the fun time at the amusement park, the wonderful stroll through town, the rough and arousing, yet somewhat comforting sexual encounter they’d had on the couch. Each moment she’d spent with him so far tonight had been magic. No man had ever made her feel so treasured, so cherished…so vulnerable.

  She froze, trying desperately to ignore the flashes of her approaching orgasm. How had she allowed him so deeply into her psyche that she was allowing him to fuck her? The pleasure winding through her body was a gift, the most perfect present from a seemingly perfect man.

  Oh no no…this is surrender.

  She nipped at his throat, and he purred, one of those feline sounds she associated with passion, with sex, with mating. She’d heard it enough through closed doors at Cattail to recognize it immediately, and it scared the living hell out of her. It was contentment.

  With one shove, she managed to roll them around until he was lying beneath her. His cock rammed even farther into her pussy, rubbing against her cervix and sending multiple shivers of pleasure down her back. He gazed up at her, those sapphire eyes blazing like jewels in the light coming thro
ugh the balcony door.

  “If you wanted to be in charge, Rosie, all you had to do was ask.”

  She leaned down and grabbed a handful of hair. She pressed her lips against his ear. “I don’t ask for anything, Tomcat. I take.”

  His lips parted in a smile. “Anything I have is yours.”

  She lifted up and tossed her hair back as she began to undulate, her body curving into an S-shape then straightening as she rolled her hips, forcing his cock in and out of her pussy in a sensual, rhythmic dance. Her dancing had served to make her stomach muscles strong, rock-hard, and she used them now as she moved her hips and core like a consummate belly dancer begging for coins with movement alone. She lifted her arms over her head, listening to the music in her head, and allowing her body to rock, to sway, to ripple with the cadence. She became Salome, and Robb Jackson became her willing sacrifice. She could see it in his gaze when the specks of silver began to swirl in the sapphire, and he closed his eyes in surrender, allowing her to bring his body so close to orgasm she could already smell his cum.

  Moving faster, she surged forward, impaling herself on his thick, hard cock, and then she lifted away in a sensuous move that made him raise his hips to follow her movement.

  “I’m close,” he whispered.

  “I know.”

  He reached between her legs and began to rub her clit. She should have stopped him. She could orgasm on her own because his cock was sliding over her G-spot with every movement. But she wanted the connection, the touch of him on her flesh, the feel of his finger pressing against the nerves begging for release.

  “Come for me, Rosie,” he whispered.

  She clenched her jaw but continued to ride him, harder, faster, deeper.

  “You’re not in charge of me, Jackson.”

  “Never, Rosie.”

  “Then stop—”

  “Just fucking do it,” he snarled.

  And before she could stop herself, before she could protest, she did. The orgasm ripped through her with such force she nearly collapsed on top of him. Sparks of sensation shot along her spine, sending lethargic waves of pleasure through her limbs and turning her into a ragdoll. Her clit throbbed, and as her pussy clasped his cock again and again, she felt the pulse of his orgasm knocking against her inner walls. He wrapped his hands around her waist and yanked her down until she lay fully against him, her body still thrumming, her muscles still deadened, her pussy still vibrating with aftershocks.

  He held her, and she listened to the rapid beat of his heart, smelled the essence of his sweat and his sex, and felt the rough crispness of his chest hairs under her cheek. As she lay quietly, she became aware of the exact moment his cock stopped pulsing. It was the same moment his arms tightened around her and he kissed the top of her head.

  “Good?” Robb asked.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Very good, but…”

  She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and she certainly didn’t want to ruin such a wonderful date, but she couldn’t allow him to think it could happen again.

  “Go ahead and say it,” he said. She lifted her face to look into his eyes. “I dare you.” He smirked.

  “How do you know what I want to say?”

  He brushed her hair back from her face. “Because I want to say the exact same thing.”

  She lifted up and stared down at him. If the men of Cattail Ranch were perfect cougar specimens, this man was panther perfection. Every inch of his tanned skin glistened, his dark bed-rough hair looked adorably messy, and those eyes…she could willingly throw herself into the ocean of his eyes.

  “So what do we do?” she asked.

  “Fuck again?”

  She pursed her lips. “You are incorrigible, Tomcat 6.”

  “But you like that, don’t you?” He gave her a smile that would have looked innocent on anyone but him.

  “Sí, I like that very much.” She lay down and slid against his body, her pussy rubbing against his thigh. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll let you be on top this time.”

  “Then I’m going to be a very, very good boy.”

  * * * *

  “Damn, I hate this fucking city.”

  Talon swiped his hand across his sweaty forehead, thinking if one more drunk knocked into him, he’d pretty much have to kill someone. He didn’t even care who. Anyone with a pulse would do. It was four o’clock in the freaking morning, and people were still partying their asses off. He glanced around at the people stumbling down Bourbon Street, their arms slung around each other, their heads nodding on their shoulders.

  “Only in New Orleans. Even the people in Vegas have more sense.” He watched one guy walk directly into a brick wall. He crumpled to the ground, and his buddies hauled him to his feet. “Lightweight.”

  He looked to the sky, wishing with everything in him he could just shift and get the fuck out of Dodge. But no…freaking Santos needed a personal meeting, so Talon had to fly to the rendezvous point, shift to human, change into a really hot suit, and drive into town.

  He glanced toward Stumblefuck and his band of merry men. They might be dumb as a box of rocks, but at least those frat boys knew how to dress for the New Orleans heat. Loose T-shirts and cargo shorts. That was the way to go, not this freaking three-piece-of-shit suit.

  He glanced again at his phone. Coral’s. Where the fuck was this place anyway? He counted down the numbers until he reached the corner and found a partially opened French door in the side of the brick building. The soft sounds of jazz drifted onto the sidewalk. A small, tarnished brass plaque by the side of the door read Coral’s.

  “Damn. It had to be jazz.” He adjusted his tie and stepped into the dark interior. The blast of hot air hit him immediately, and he nearly did his own walk into a brick wall. Who the fuck owned this place, and why the fuck wasn’t the AC on? He planned to find this Coral and make her turn the air up.

  A five-piece band played lazily in the corner. Three of the five looked ready to call it a night. The bass player was hanging on his instrument. The other two had pretty much already checked out, mentally at least. Their hands continued to move on the keys of the piano and the sax, eliciting small pockets of sound, but their eyes said no one was home. He was glad. There was no instrument on earth more irritating than the saxophone. Why anyone thought it was sexy was beyond him, and anyone who liked that loser sax player with the initial instead of a name needed to walk directly into a brick wall or already had.

  The dozen or so small round tables were full, the patrons talking quietly, sipping on drinks, or staring into space. He saw boss man near the bar at a table for two, sipping a glass of what looked to be straight bourbon. So cozy and quaint. Just a gentleman having a drink in his favorite bar. But this bar was not an ordinary bar, even for New Orleans. Every person in the room was a serpent-shifter. The heat alone told him that, and when he caught a glance of the dish behind the bar, it was a foregone conclusion. Shifter women were the most beautiful women on earth, and this hottie was no exception.

  A drip of sweat ran down the side of his neck and hit his collar.

  He was seriously contemplating going back outside into the relative cool ninety-degree evening when Santos saw him. He lifted his hand, and Talon had no choice but to move forward. As he settled into the too-small seat—some sort of wrought iron thing dug into his back even through the seemingly endless yards of jacket fabric—the dishy bartender came to the table, bringing a bottle and another glass. Thank God it was bourbon and not tequila. She poured some into his glass then refilled Santos’s as well before placing the bottle on the table.

  “Anything else for now, gentlemen?” she asked, her sultry voice heating up their little corner to hellish extremes. A light sheen of perspiration coated her dark-caramel skin. Talon wanted to lick it off, slow and easy.

  “Nothing at the moment, Coral,” Santos said. “Thank you. Perhaps a song for us?”

  “Gladly, sir,” she said, her breath like a sirocco over Talon’s skin.

  Th
en he got it. Coral. Coral snake. Sure. He really needed to get with the program. He blamed the heat.

  She slithered away, her sexy bottom swaying under her tight black miniskirt. Hot damn. She took the stage in front of the musicians, who perked up a bit at her appearance. The bass player straightened up, stretching his serpentine spine. Coral pressed her mouth to the microphone, staring at Talon like a woman contemplating giving him the best blow job of his life. He almost lost his breath when she began to sing “Stardust.” He suddenly had a whole new take on jazz.

  Santos glanced at his Rolex then pulled Talon out of his fantasy, slamming him back to reality with a hard jolt. “Glad you could make it. I was beginning to think we were meeting for breakfast.”

  “You said drinks, didn’t…” He smiled. “Ah, I get it, sir.”

  “I’m glad my sense of humor is appreciated.” He adjusted the cuff link—an onyx serpent on a silver disk—on his impeccable white shirt. “And I believe I said 3:00 a.m., did I not?”

  Talon nodded, already aware the meeting was sliding downhill fast. Damage control was needed here. “You did, sir, but I hit a storm near the border.”

  “Hurricane force?” Santos took a sip of his drink, looking bored.

  “No, sir.”

  He gave him a blasé look and asked simply, “Then what took you so fucking long?”

  “I apologize, sir. I should have stuck to the most direct route, regardless of the weather.”

  “That’s always the best course of action, Talon. A plan is a plan is a plan.”

  He said it as if it were a quote in Poor Richard’s Almanack. Talon had never heard it before, but he wisely kept his trap shut about that.