“What?” She’s on top, but I have all the control.
She grinds against me, and her body’s reaction drives me wild. Her chest is flushed, her lips parted and wet, and inside, she’s tight and warm.
My finger traces the shallow curve of her spine, loving the silkiness of her skin. It’s nothing like my own, which is weathered and callused.
I lift her up so I can suck her breast back into my mouth. I swallow like I’ll drink her up. My heart pounds, my cock straining. I can’t think about anything except the primal hunger that grips me.
“Careful,” she husks when I bite her nipple.
I don’t listen. I’m even rougher with the other strawberry bud.
She cries out, arching and struggling. I don’t let her escape. She’ll have to use words if she wants it to stop. As long as she acts like prey, my beast is free to take what it wants.
I put my cock back inside her waiting sheath. Juice drips down to coat the base. We both need this.
She drags her fingernails over my shoulders. I grab her arms and pin them behind her back, pumping upward with my hips.
Her head shakes in anguish, sending her shoulder-length hair flying. Her teeth sink into her lip. She jerks forward and bites my chest.
I growl, tightening my grip on her wrists. I don’t slow down. I can’t.
When she comes, wailing, it tips me over. I jerk many times, spilling my seed in a thundering rush.
She collapses against my sweltering body. Hers is cool and damp and feels like heaven.
She kisses the tender spot where her small teeth bit and marked me.
“Bad little bird,” I murmur. “Your beak’s sharp.”
“Sorry,” she says, but she doesn’t sound it. And in truth, I don’t want her to be. I’ll take this little raven’s teeth marks for days.
She rises up, freeing my cock, and then collapses against me again.
“You’re huge, but we... we fit,” she says, sounding surprised.
I rest a hand on her back, holding her against my chest. It feels right.
* * *
Rachel
I take a shower, and Sasha gives me one of his clean T shirts to put on. When I find Lady Indigo’s case on top of the fridge, I excitedly stand on tiptoes to retrieve it. I open the case and find my precious violin undamaged.
“Thank God!”
“The bag’s yours too,” he says, taking a small brown handle bag from the fridge and handing it to me.
I open it and find several books. I take them out. Two young adult novels, one moody with a message, the other a sarcastic paranormal. There’s also a psychological thriller that I’ve been meaning to read, and a nonfiction book on the history of music. They’re all award winners or bestsellers.
“Why?” I ask, looking up.
“You read a lot. I thought you’d want books.”
I stare at him. “I do.” I study the cover of the YA paranormal novel. It’s the latest from one of my favorite authors and I haven’t had time to read it yet. “Why this one?”
“You like her.”
“How do you know?”
