by Tessa Adams
“Dylan!” Her eyes went dim, her brain hazy. It must have been what he was waiting for—the disconnection between mind and body—because just that suddenly, he was upon her.
Teasing her.
Tasting her.
Devouring her in a series of sexy, seductive bites.
Starting at her collarbone, Dylan licked his way up her neck. He paused at the hollow of her throat, dawdled at the line where her jaw met her neck, dallied at the sensitive spot beneath her ear. He deliberately sought out all the spots that drove her crazy, listening to the way her breath hitched and ebbed in an effort to figure out exactly what she liked and how hard—or soft—she liked it.
Jesus, she smelled good. He pressed his nose to her and inhaled for long, delicious seconds. Like the sweet, dark honey he’d eaten by the bowlful as a child. Like the desert after a rainstorm.
His tongue slipped over her, tasted Phoebe’s flushed skin, and he almost came in his jeans. How was it possible for her to taste even better than she looked? Than she smelled?
He licked her again, lingering at the spot under her ear, loving how she moved restlessly against him. She tasted like vanilla. Like warm, melted caramel. Like home.
He instinctively shied away from the last thought, even as his dragon wanted to immerse himself in it. The beast didn’t care about differences or treading carefully. It wanted only to claim.
She moaned, a breathless little sound that had his cock nearly punching through his jeans and his talons doing the same to his fingertips. For a second, he felt pain—the beginnings of the change clawing at his back and stomach—mar the pleasure of being so close to her. He pushed it away, tamped it down, ignored it, and focused instead on the absolute joy that came from holding Phoebe in his arms.
Nuzzling his way up her jaw, he ran his lips over her cheeks and chin, across her forehead and eyes, over the bridge of her nose. He reveled in the luscious scent of her, the creamy softness of her. The wicked, wanton sex of her. The dragon wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around her until she became a part of him.
The thought alarmed him almost as much as it aroused him. He growled low in his throat, a deep rumble that was more animal than human.
“Dylan.” Phoebe’s voice was higher, tighter, than normal.
“Yes?”
She bucked against him. “If you don’t do something soon, I’m going to scream.”
He grinned at her, let her see just a little of his teeth. “Scream away, love. No one will hear you.”
“Dylan, please.”
“What do you want me to do?” His mouth was only an inch from hers, close enough that he could feel her ragged breathing. Far enough that he could still struggle for control.
“Anything. Everything.”
“That’s not very specific.” He punished her—and himself—by pulling back another inch.
“No!” Her hands clutched desperately at his hair. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me like this.” Her breath caught, her voice broke, and just that suddenly, he was lost.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Lowering his lips back to her own, he claimed her mouth in a kiss that was as much about possession as it was about pleasure.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Phoebe stiffened at the invasion, her lips parting in surprise at the powerful surge of Dylan’s mouth against hers. He took instant advantage, his tongue thrusting into the deepest recesses of her mouth. He swept along the insides of her cheek, teased the top of her mouth with the tip of his tongue, stroked along the inside of her lower lip and then her upper one, where he played with the small piece of skin that attached her lip to her gum.
Pleasure shot through her—wild sparks that lit her up from the inside. She wrapped her arms around the back of his head, wove her fingers into the black silk of his hair and tugged him closer. Then opened herself to Dylan and whatever he wanted of her.
His tongue tangled with her own and she moaned, even as she stroked her tongue along the length of his. He tasted like he sounded—like dark, bittersweet chocolate mixed with smoke and coffee and smooth, silky Scotch. She sucked on his tongue, savoring the taste of him, before exploring his mouth as he had hers.
God, he tasted good. And, God, he could kiss. For a man who was as powerful and dominating as he seemed to be, Dylan had no trouble giving up control of the kiss to her, letting her tease and taunt and stroke at him until his need was a fiery conflagration between them.
With a sigh, she sucked his lower lip between her teeth and nipped at it. Nipped at him. Softly at first, and then with more of a bite. Something dark moved inside her—something that was more than lust, more than need—but she shoved it down. Ignored it. Concentrated instead on the heat burning her from the inside out.
She bit at him again, then sucked his full, lower lip between her own and soothed the hurt away. One sweep of her tongue over the area she’d marked, then a second, was all it took.
Dylan’s control shattered. He went from willing participant to dominating male in an instant. Suddenly, his hands were under her skirt, his fingers kneading her thighs in a rhythm that made her head thrash back and forth on the pillow.
His thumbs dug deep into her flesh, rubbing out any knots, then skimmed upward slowly, slowly, so slowly that she was sure she would lose her mind before he touched her. Just when she was about to whimper, about to beg, one thumb slid over the damp crotch of her panties.
Phoebe moaned—she couldn’t help herself—and lifted her hips to press herself more firmly against his tormenting thumb. But Dylan only laughed and withdrew. “Not yet,” he murmured against her aching lips. “Not yet.”
“Dylan!” It was a wail, a plea. It had been so long, and he felt so good. Just a little more and she would—
As if he sensed how close she was to climax already, he pulled his hand away with a grin that was so deliberately provoking, she wanted to lash out at him. To slam her fist into his face for being such a domineering asshole. But he felt so good and she needed him so badly that all she could do was wait and whimper.
It would have pissed her off if he hadn’t ripped off her tank top and rewarded her patience with a long, lingering sweep of his tongue from the hollow of her throat to her navel.
“You taste good,” he whispered against her stomach. “Like sun and wind and sweet, sweet rain in the desert.”
He trailed his tongue over to her hip, ran it between each rib, tickling and tormenting her in equal measures. “I want to taste every part of you,” he continued, using sweeping strokes to work his way up her arm to her collarbone. “See if you’re the same everywhere”—a finger dipped into her panties and stroked along the quivering slit of her pussy—“or if parts of you are sweeter.”
He eased a finger inside of her, and her hips canted off the bed like a piston. She wanted this, wanted him, all of him, but if all he would give her was a finger in her cunt and a tongue at her throat, she would take it. God, would she ever.
Her breath caught, her body catching fire yet again as she watched his cock jerk under her gaze. When he turned away abruptly, it took all her self-control to keep from calling him back to her.
“Do you want some wine?” He retrieved a bottle from the bar, poured a glass and drained it, then filled it again and brought it to her.
“Not particularly.”
“You sure?”
She shook her head, too far gone to worry about pride. “That’s not what I’m thirsty for.”
His eyes darkened even more—who would have thought that was possible?—until all she could see was the brilliantly wicked light shining out of them. And then he was launching himself at her, giving her no more time to think. She could only feel, only revel in the sensations of unbelievable pleasure the contact with his body brought hers.
He lay next to her on his side so that he was touching her in one long line from her shoulders to her toes. The roughness of his jeans scraped against the tender skin of her waist and outer thigh, but she relished the contact. Embrac
ed the burn that was once again taking her over.
Rising on one elbow, he held the glass of wine suspended over her. And waited until she had focused on him, on the glass, on the red, red wine. “What are you doing?” she demanded, pushing up so that she, too, was resting on her elbows, but on her back.
He grinned and it was a scandalous, shameless thing. Her heart beat faster, and then her head fell back as he poured some of the ruby liquid onto her stomach.
He leaned forward. His mouth sipped the liquid from her like she was a fine crystal goblet. His tongue traced patterns on her quivering stomach, and whatever thoughts she’d managed so far simply ceased. All she could do was feel.
He leaned forward, drizzled some more wine on the curving plane of her stomach, watched with laser-bright eyes as it worked its way over her abdomen, down her mons, to the folds between her legs.
Then he was on her, his body covering hers, his shoulders flexing as he trailed hot, moist kisses down her body. He followed the trail the wine had taken, his wicked, wonderful mouth doing things to her she had only read about before. He was everywhere—everywhere—and as his tongue thrust inside her, Phoebe lost any and all inhibitions she might have had.
Sinking back to the bed—collapsing, really—she let him have his wicked, wicked way with her.
And what a way it was. He played her like a finely tuned instrument, loved her like she was the only woman he’d ever had. He was endlessly curious, unbelievably giving, his mouth bringing her to orgasm over and over as he learned what she liked and what she absolutely adored.
He licked her in long strokes, again and again, like she was the sweetest ice cream he’d ever tasted and he could never get enough. His tongue explored every crease, lingered for long minutes at her clit until she was clawing the comforter in search of relief.
But there was none, only more of this torturous pleasure. His thumb pressed against her from behind, entering her anus at the same time his tongue thrust into her pussy like a spear.
She screamed, bucked wildly against him, rode out the orgasm as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. And still he wasn’t done. His face was buried between her thighs, his lips and tongue and breath coming at her again and again until sanity was only an abstract concept.
Soon she was going beyond individual orgasms to a place where the overwhelming pleasure went on and on and on. She twisted desperately, tugged at his shoulders, begged for the satisfaction of his cock within her slick channel. And still he pushed her, until she was sobbing, mindless, an animal driven by the sweet, hot edge of pleasure and pain.
Her body was no longer her own. It was under his complete control, enthralled, desperate, dying. In those moments, it didn’t matter that he was different, that she wanted to study him. Didn’t matter that he was paying her three million dollars to help him and being less than straightforward about it. All that mattered was his lack of selfishness, the way he made her feel. That he could take anything from her but instead only wanted to bring her joy—incredible, mind-boggling joy—was the biggest turn-on of them all.
He spiked his tongue, swirled it inside her before pulling out and going for her clit again. Another wave snuck up on her, slammed through her, and then she was pushing him away. Rolling over. Ripping his jeans and T-shirt off and skimming her mouth over his chest and rock-hard biceps.
He had a tattoo on his left arm, a black tribal band made up of shapes and symbols she’d never seen before. She ran her tongue over the curlicues, lingered on the sharp angles before sliding down his arm and softly kissing the wicked-looking scar that ran the length of his upper arm.
He shuddered at the touch of her lips, and suddenly she wanted to take him higher, make him crazier. Sliding down his stomach, she took his incredibly long, incredibly hot cock in her mouth.
“Fuck, Phoebe,” he groaned, his hands fisting in her hair as she got her first taste of him. He was delicious, and it was her turn to tease, her turn to swirl her tongue down and around him until he was breathing in great shudders, his lower body arching off the bed, as desperate for her as she had been for him.
“Have mercy,” he murmured.
But there was no mercy in her, nothing but the driving need to take him as high as he had taken her. She slipped her mouth down the hard length of him, lingered at the base for a moment as he slid down her throat. Then pulled back with a long, lingering swipe of her tongue.
“Don’t tease.” It was a gasp. Sweat poured off him as his body shuddered beneath hers. “Please, just do it.”
But she couldn’t. She wasn’t ready for it to end yet, wasn’t ready to see Dylan’s passion-glazed features go lax with satisfaction. She wanted him as needy as she had been—and still was. She had to have him as desperate to be inside her as she was to have him there.
And so she continued her ministrations, slipping and sliding over him. She relinquished his cock for a moment, slipped farther down his body to take his balls in her mouth, to lick the space behind them with hard strokes of her tongue that had him arching and pleading, much as she had done only minutes before.
The power was a beautiful thing, the understanding that brainy little Phoebe, as she had always been called, could drive this beautiful specimen of manhood to insanity and beyond.
“Do it!” His voice was harsh, his hands tight and unyielding in her hair as he pulled her up. He was beyond gentleness, beyond thinking, and she loved him this way. As she licked back up to where he wanted her, she noticed the clear drops of fluid on the head of his cock and wanted to roar her triumph. She had driven him beyond control, to the brink of an orgasm he refused to take without her.
But the choice wasn’t his anymore. She was in control now, and his body would give her what she demanded.
She licked the pre-ejaculate off, dawdled for a few long moments over the sexy length of him as he writhed beneath her, his hands in her hair a snare she had no wish to escape. “You have to . . . Phoebe, please . . . I can’t . . .”
There it was: the note of surrender and desperation she had been waiting for. It was a heady feeling, having this big, strong, predatory male at her mercy. With a secret grin, she swallowed him whole, sucking him all the way inside her. She used her mouth and tongue and throat on him, lightly scraped her teeth across his great length. It was that moment of combined pleasure and pain that did it, that sent him careening over the edge he’d been clinging to with battered fingers.
With a hoarse cry, he arched up, thrusting again and again against her seeking mouth. And then he was pouring into her with long, brutal jerks of his hips, and she was loving every second of it.
When he finally pulled out, he was still hard, his strong body trembling as wave after wave of sensation swept through him. And arousal hit her all over again.
Phoebe’s breathy moans roared through him like a wildfire, and Dylan nearly trembled in relief. Though he’d just had her, just come like a volcano erupting, he was ready for her again. Ready? Hell. He was desperate to feel her warm, wet pussy milk him dry. Leaning down, he kissed her, savoring the taste of her on his lips and him on hers.
“Dylan, please.” She trembled and arched against him. “Fuck me. Fuck me now.”
Her words broke the last chain of his control, and he was slamming himself up and into her, burying himself balls deep with his very first thrust. She clamped around him like a greedy fist, and his eyes nearly crossed at the pleasure that shot through him as he became a part of her for the first time.
She was slick and wet and burning hot, and for a second he feared that he’d lose it before he could make her come again. He wanted—needed—to know what it felt like to be inside her when she climaxed.
The dragon roared, as desperate for that final intimacy as he was. He felt it moving through him, felt its need to touch and stroke and nuzzle her.
Gritting his teeth against the need to change that was gathering at the base of his spine, he worked to hold on to the shattered pieces of his control. Then Phoebe whi
mpered, her hands pulling at his hair, her legs wrapping themselves around his waist, her cunt pulling at his cock, and he knew he couldn’t hold on any longer.
Letting loose, he rode her hard, his hands braced on either side of her hips as he kept his gaze on hers, forcing her to look at him. Making sure that she saw him, that she knew who it was that was making love to her.
Over and over he thrust into her satin heat until the fire threatened to consume him. Flames of pleasure flashed through him, burning him up with the intensity of the emotions and sensations that had taken over his body. The dragon roared, and he wanted to roar with it.
He wanted to come, needed to come with a desperation that bordered on the insane, but at the same time he wanted to stay where he was—buried inside Phoebe’s incredible warmth—forever.
Sweat beaded on his chest, rolled down his back, but still he refused to stop. He thrust into her over and over again, trying to get as close to and as deep within her as he could. Trying to get inside more than her body. His arms trembled under the onslaught, his cock screamed for relief and still he continued to move inside her.
She was sobbing, screaming, her muscles contracting more and more tightly around him with every slam of his hips. Her nails dug into his back, her teeth into his shoulder, and still he kept at her. Her legs circled his hips, her hands clutched at his back and he knew that he couldn’t hold on any longer. She felt too good, too alive, too human, and he wanted to experience every part of her.
He was buried deep, wrapped tightly within her, when he felt the climax tear through her—a deep, dark wave of sensation so powerful that it swamped him, buried him, dragged him under before he could find the will to resist. His own climax welled up within him, the sweet clutch of her body sending him right over the edge and beyond, to a place where nothing existed but the infinite pain and pleasure of their joining. A place where he could do nothing but wallow in the need that arced between them like the most violent lightning.
