by Moira Rogers
Lust blazed through her, plain and simple—except perhaps not, because some mad urge drove her to whisper, “Say it, Hunter. Say you wanted me.”
Warm fingers closed around her throat in a breathlessly possessive grip, somehow unyielding and unthreatening at the same time. “No one else,” he rasped, bending down to lick the bite mark on her left shoulder. “You’re mine.”
Something went weak inside her, the last separation between offering and surrender. “If you want me.”
He caught her mouth, his fingers still strong beneath her jaw, the kiss brutal in its hunger. Teeth scraped her lips, clashed with hers before his tongue swept over hers, driving and demanding.
Ophelia wrapped her hand around his arm, digging her nails into his skin as she drowned in his kiss and silently begged him for more.
Instead he lifted her, dragged her with him as he straightened to sit back on his heels. She ended up with her back pressed to his chest, knees spread wide by his own. That firm hand stayed curled around her throat, but the other one…
He kissed her again, deep and hard, and began to play with her. There was no other description for how he touched her, fingertips plucking at her nipple until she jerked and twisted closer.
She opened her eyes and dragged in a breath when she caught sight of them in the mirror by the bed. He was watching her as he stroked her, his gaze hungry and inhuman. When he met her eyes in the mirror, his lips curled into a feral smile. “Tell me what you see.”
“Need.” The answer came unbidden as she watched him trail his fingers down her body and struggled to reconcile the sight with the sensation. “Pleasure, so much—” She shifted her hips, tried to lift them to his touch.
The pad of his finger whispered over her clit. “So wet.”
She shuddered at the depth of her reaction, heat streaking through her until she felt weak. Undone. “What—” Her voice broke, and she had to clear her throat. “What do you see?”
“My woman.” He stroked his fingers over her, parting her with a pleased groan. “Ready for me. Hot for me.”
Soon, he’d push those fingers inside her, torment her with a sweet prelude to possession. Any second now, and yet it seemed like forever that he teased her, brushing her clit and then circling away.
She didn’t know she was holding her breath until she exhaled on a sob. “Please.”
A soothing rumble vibrated against her back, and he gave her one broad finger, pushing into her in a shallow thrust.
So good—and yet not enough. Ophelia shuddered in his arms and tried to turn her face to his. His hand tightened—instinct or warning, she couldn’t be sure—but a moment later he eased his grip. “Give me your mouth.”
She parted her lips immediately, every fiber of her being focused on the moment when he would let go. Not this first time, perhaps not even this first night, but at some point the scales would tip, and his need for her would override his need for control.
For now he seemed to revel in that control, in the ways he could control her. His finger thrust deeper, and then his tongue, a dizzy interplay of claiming and retreating, leaving none of her unpossessed.
Ophelia bit his tongue and rocked against his finger. A dangerous game, testing a hound’s control, but one she couldn’t help but play.
In response, he growled against her mouth and worked another finger into her, stretching her. It sharpened the ache almost unbearably, so she gasped into his mouth and closed her teeth on his lower lip.
His low, pleased chuckle spilled over her as he lifted his head. Then his touch disappeared, only to return as teasing, barely-there circles around her clit. “Use your own fingers,” he demanded, his gaze fixed on her in the mirror. “Show me.”
Every warning she’d ever received about the perils of taunting a bloodhound vanished. Hunter wasn’t a lust-addled hound who needed sheer relief, to feel a woman coming on his cock. He’d rejected Sylvie and claimed her, a fact that gave her power. Freedom.
As long as she didn’t run from him, she could push.
Ophelia slid a hand over one breast, pausing to catch her nipple between her fingers with a sharp tug. Then she kept going and finally shoved his hand out of the way. “Excuse me.”
He caught her wrist with a wild snarl—but he didn’t stop her.
Stroking herself was less intense than his touch, but having him watch her magnified her anticipation and pleasure. She drew it out, slow and easy, each touch softer than the last until she finally rocked two fingers deep inside.
“Beautiful.” He covered her hand with his own, broad fingers urging her deeper. “Come around those pretty little fingers so I can lick them clean.”
Oh Christ. Ophelia swallowed hard and breathed his name as she began to roll her hips, thrusting against her hand. His eyes slitted, breath escaping on a groan every time she rocked back against his hardened cock.
Heaven. She braced her free hand on his thigh and slowed her hips to grind over his lap. He groaned louder, his grip on her wrist tightening, and her vision wavered as tense pleasure quaked through her.
That was when he closed his teeth on her throat, primal and possessive.
Ophelia whimpered as she rode out the blinding orgasm. She clutched at Hunter, then realized she was begging him with words as well as her touch. “Please, love. Please—”
His control shattered. It could have been her grasping hands or her release or something else entirely, and she couldn’t bring herself to care as he tumbled her back to the bed on her hands and knees. He slid his palm up her spine, pushing her upper body toward the bed as he stroked her hip.
Then he pressed the blunt head of his cock against her. “This? Is this what you want?”
“Yes.” She needed it, like water or air. “Hunter.”
He surged forward, hard and thick enough to make her bite her lip to stifle a gasp. If she’d been less aroused, less ready for him, it might have hurt.
Instead, he filled every hungry place inside her. “Perfect,” she breathed. “You’re perfect.”
“I’m not done,” he rasped, easing back. The next thrust pushed deeper, and he groaned and worked into her with short, rocking movements, his fingers digging into her hip. “Too much?”
She clenched her hands in the covers. “Hunter?”
He froze. Shuddered.
She met his wild gaze in the mirror and exhaled on a shaky sigh. “Shut up and fuck me.”
For an endless moment, there was silence. No sound, not even his harsh breathing. Then he laughed, a dark sound full of pleasure and intent, as he straightened and curled both hands around her hips.
His first thrust was hard, unyielding. The second drove her a few inches across the bed, and he gripped her hips and dragged her into the third. Every thrust came harder, faster, threatening to overwhelm her.
Through it all, he watched her in the mirror. His gaze never left her, roaming over her face and body, his eyes flashing satisfaction at every noise he drove from her, every whimper and gasp and sigh.
It was far too intense to last long. Ophelia twisted the covers and bucked, anything to ease the knot inside her. It tightened and built so quickly she wondered if she had come down at all, or if the steady thrust of his body into hers had kept her hovering near another peak all along.
Still watching her, he stroked his hand beneath her body, demanding fingers slicking over her clit as he drove into her again. And again.
Another breathtaking pulse of pleasure rocked her, and she shook beneath him. She’d be sobbing soon, insensible and utterly at his mercy as he spun her higher and higher.
And he’d love it. Thrive on it. Wallow in her pleasure and demand more, all she could give, all he could wrench from her trembling body before he soothed her with soft touches only to start all over.
It was there in his eyes, his hungry blue eyes, fixed on their reflection as he rode her through another throbbing wave of bliss, growling encouragement as her body tightened helplessly around his still-hard cock.
He was a man too long denied, and he wanted everything she had.
Everything she was.
As if he’d heard the thought, his possessive grip on her hips tightened. “Mine,” he rasped, and fucked her over the edge of reason.
Chapter Five
His. His his his.
A refrain. A scream. Screeching discordance, claws raking over him any time her skin wasn’t under his hands, his mouth.
Everything burned, raged, but she was peace. Warm and soft, slick and welcoming. Pale skin on sheets, silken hair wrapped around his fist.
Slender throat.
Swollen lips.
She arched as he pressed into her, deep deep falling drowning beautiful, how her body sheathed him, took him, clasped at him as she shuddered and came and came and came—
Peace. For a moment, a heartbeat, then the fire flared, more demanding than ever.
Under the madness, a man struggled to remember his name. Struggled to remember what names were, why words were important. They tumbled from his mouth beyond his control, sleek and seductive, crude and cunning.
Commands: lick, suck, scream, touch, beg, come.
He was still hard. Always hard, always aching, even when she stroked and touched, when she swallowed him and drove sounds from his throat, moans and guttural cries and the snarls and growls of a monster, a beast, a bloodhound.
When he snarled Ophelia he meant mate.
Release without respite, until her trembling body could take no more. Panic gripped the man, fear that he’d fall on her. Ravage instead of ravish, hurt the woman whose name he fought to whisper.
The beast hissed in outraged fury and gathered their treasure close. Soft touches, soothing and gentle, lulling her into sleep, watching over her even as fire raged. So hard, so hot, arousal a painful pulse as he covered her body with his own. A bloodhound for a blanket, protecting her from the night chill and the heat of their own lust.
Watching, waiting, the beast guarded his mate. Counted her breaths and stroked her hair, and the man struggled to understand gentleness in the midst of unrelenting need.
Fear fractured. Pieces fell away, and the beast slipped into the man as the man slipped into the beast.
Truce. For now.
Ophelia dropped the ignored strawberry back to the silver tray and sighed as Hunter licked her chin. “You have to eat, honey, to keep up your strength.”
“You taste better.” His teeth scraped her jaw, and he chuckled hoarsely. “All over.”
“So do you.” She craned her head and drew her tongue up the side of his throat. “Delicious.”
Hunter retrieved the strawberry and held it to her lips. “You need to eat too.”
She licked his fingers instead of the fruit. “Only if you share it with me.”
A sound rumbled up from his chest. Not quite a growl, but a warning. His gaze never left her face as he sank his teeth into the fruit and then offered it to her again.
The berry was succulent enough to drip when she bit into it, and she laughed as he swooped in to lick the juice from her chin. She had the chance now to touch him, to do more than submit to his hunger and iron will.
When night fell, of course, his appetite would rise once more. In spite of her aching muscles, desire twisted in Ophelia’s belly again. “Hunter?”
“Mmm?” He licked at her fingers, drew one between his lips and teased it with his teeth.
She almost swallowed the question that rose. Almost. “What was your name? Before?”
He froze. Eased her finger away and studied her, wary and hesitant. Time spooled out, a week between every slow breath before he licked his lips. “Matthew.”
She turned the name over in her mind, almost let it roll over her tongue. But he was watching her so cautiously that she smiled instead. “It suits you. But so does Hunter.”
“I’m Hunter now.” The words held unmistakable finality.
“Yes,” she agreed, stroking her fingers through his hair. “Yes, you are.”
“Would you rather have Matthew?”
The way he asked, insecure and rough, had her shaking her head before he finished. “I’d rather have you, just like this.”
Hunter watched her as he lifted another strawberry and offered it to her in silence. The wild roughness didn’t fade. If anything, his tension mounted as he waited for her to accept his offer.
She took the fruit in one bite, then closed her eyes and nestled her face in the crook of his shoulder. He’d curled around her while she slept, and now it was her turn to wrap him in her arms and make him feel safe.
Needed.
Slowly, hesitantly, his arms came around her. When she didn’t resist they tightened, pulling her more fully into his lap. He was aroused even now, and grew harder as he settled her tight to his body, though he seemed more concerned with peppering slow, lazy kisses over her neck and shoulder than he did with the state of his erection.
She tipped the serving tray as she shifted on his lap, trying to angle her hips over his. When the head of his cock prodded against her, she drew in a breath and bit his ear. “Yes?”
He responded with a hand at her hip, dragging her down, and Ophelia bit him harder as he drove deep inside her. It was nothing less than possession, and she dropped her face to his shoulder as she shivered through those first breathtaking moments.
“You take me.” He mumbled the words against the top of her head as his fingers moved restlessly up and down her back, touching and stroking, soothing even as they sought to excite. “So willing. Perfect.”
“Because you feel so good.” Her voice sounded dreamy to her own ears, vague and drunk with pleasure.
Hunter spread his fingers wide just beneath her shoulder blades and made an approving noise. “Lean back. I have you.”
Of course he did. Ophelia fell against his hand, let him lean her back. “You have me.”
The muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed as he held her suspended, her back arched. Even a strong man would have grown tired quickly, but he was a bloodhound with endless energy to burn, and he rocked into her just like that.
Ecstasy shivered up her spine with every easy thrust, and she struggled to keep her eyes open and locked on his.
“You’ll let me do anything.” He lowered her to the mattress finally, settled her gently before stroking his fingers over her shoulders to tease her breasts, as if he had all the time in the world.
It was then that she remembered they had only three days. Half that time had already slipped through her hands like water, and she closed her eyes as panic gripped her.
He hadn’t wanted this. When sense returned, would he want to pretend it hadn’t happened at all, at least until the hunger of the new moon reasserted itself?
His hands crashed to the mattress on either side of her, fisting on the sheets and catching stray strands of her hair. “Are you hurt?”
If she didn’t answer… Ophelia opened her eyes and wrapped her hands around his arms. “I’m fine, honey.”
His eyes went wild as he snarled, “You’re not fine.”
He needed the truth, even if she regretted it later, but a whisper was all she could manage. “I don’t want this to end. I don’t want to watch you walk away.”
A frown. His gaze roamed her face, clearly searching for hints of a lie, then settled on her mouth. “I’m not walking away.” He licked her lower lip, nipped at it. “Mine.”
Here, and for now. The near-madness of the new moon allowed for no complexities—there was mine and there was not, with nothing in between, no places to exist as a man and a woman who barely knew each other but just might have a chance for someday.
Her own world hadn’t been boiled down to bare instinct, and she remembered his words all too well. No, ma’am. I don’t figure that’s a good idea. He’d denied her before, denied himself, and he would do it again.
If she let him.
She pulled him closer and mimicked the caress, gliding her tongue over his mouth. “Mi
ne.”
He bit the tip of her tongue, then grinned slowly and bumped his hips against hers. “Hold on to the headboard.”
She lifted her arms automatically and smacked them on the padded wood. A testament to how sex-addled she truly was, that she hadn’t realized where on the bed she’d wound up. “Why?”
A strong thrust answered her, then another, each accompanied by a hoarse growl. Hard, claiming movements, but his eyes never left hers. In them she saw his silent plea, his need for her to meet him, to take him even as he took her.
To possess him.
Ophelia gripped the headboard and lifted her body to meet his next thrust, shuddering when the hard plunge set off a cascade of pleasure that curled her toes.
He growled his approval and rode the edge of her pleasure. He pushed her higher, harder and farther, until she tumbled into orgasm with a shriek. This time he followed her, burying his face against her throat as her name twisted free of him, wrapped in gratitude and possession.
Floating. Hunter folded his body around hers. He whispered to her, almost growled soft words she couldn’t make out as she struggled to stay awake through the exhaustion and languor that tugged at her.
No, ma’am. I don’t figure that’s a good idea.
I’m not walking away.
No, ma’am—
Ophelia shut out the echoes and clung to him.
Time twisted in on itself. Night and day and night and flesh and skin and her.
Her body was marked. Her throat and shoulders, her breasts and hips. Delicate bite marks, darker spots where he’d sucked in the taste of her. The scrape of his beard, the grip of his hands.
A kiss to every spot, pausing when she stirred sleepily only to resume when she settled. Her even breaths gentled the fire inside him. She was sated, glutted on pleasure, and while she rested he thought of a thousand things he could do.
Lick her cunt until she begged for mercy. Slide into her from behind, roll them to their sides, touch her as she came apart. He could fuck her for hours and days and forever—
“Mmm.” She lifted her hand, touched his face. “Awake?”
