She moaned, desperate now, voice hoarse, “Holy fuck, Samiel, don’t stop.” Her words were mush, little more than gasps, and every time I pumped my hips, burying myself deeper, her cunt spasmed around me like it had learned my rhythm by heart.
I licked down her spine, left a hot trail over the dip of her back, and bit her shoulder—enough to leave impressions, not enough to break skin. With one arm, I pulled her upright, chest mashed to my own as I impaled her on both cock and tail. The motion sent a fresh wash of wetness over my thighs, and I realized she was close, closer than ever before. I fucked her harder, bracing my hand across her shoulder blades, teasing herwith the tail and using the last shreds of my control to not come first.
“Good girl,” I said, a pulse of pride in my voice, and she writhed in my arms, every muscle working to meet me. “You’re taking it so well. Look at you—made to be fucked like this.”
She tried to talk but all that came out was a series of sobs and a whimpering, “I can’t—” and then she broke.
She shattered. The orgasm hit her so hard I felt it in my own bones, a clamping, rippling vise that milked my cock and squeezed the tail so tight the plates of my spine almost spasmed. Her whole body seized, then went limp, a dead-weight collapse that would have dropped her to the mattress if I wasn’t holding her up. I let her fall this time, watched her shake and claw into the sheets as I kept up the rhythm, not letting her come down, not even for a second.
She screamed. Not a word, not a plea, just a raw animal sound, and the pulse of her cunt around me was enough to bring me over the edge. I felt the knot at the base flare, let it lock into her, and came so hard I thought I was going to black out. The world narrowed to the point of our bodies joined, the feverish grip of her around me, the evidence of my own need dripping out as I filled her past the point of leaking. She was still shaking, sweat and tears streaking her face, but she arched her back and took every last thrust and twitch of my cock.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Samiel
Icollapsed on my back, pulse hammering in my skull, and stared up at the ceiling while Annie melted across the sheets. I couldn't remember a time when my body had felt so empty and so full at the same time, every nerve fried to glass, every bone melting under her weight. For a long stretch of minutes, neither of us spoke. The only sounds were her breath, the gentle snort of the cat nestling onto the pillow by my feet, and the blood still roaring in my ears.
Annie rolled onto me, a slick, beautiful mess, and flopped her face into my chest. “If anyone else can make me black out from sex, I don’t wanna meet them,” she mumbled, voice muffled in my skin. “I’ll die happy never knowing.”
“Good,” I said, still panting, “because you’re not allowed to meet anyone else. Ever again.”
She snorted, which vibrated across my ribcage like a threat.
“Possessive much?”
“Only always,” I said, and I meant it with every ruined, grateful cell in my body.
She raked her fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots, and let them drift down to my chest, where her nails traced the upraised marks from the last few hours.
“You know,” she said, “when I left, I half-thought you’d turn into a werewolf and come after me. Or eat the cat and leave her paw on my pillow as some sort of fucked-up apology.”
“I missed you more than I missed air,” I confessed, before I could think of something clever. “It was Hell on earth.”
She made a noise, half a purr, and curled up tighter. “Guess you’re stuck with me then.”
“Would you trust me enough to say I will be right back?” I asked, expecting her to laugh or call me a cocky bastard. Instead, she released me, and I sauntered casually out of the room, still completely naked.
The return to the bedroom was almost ceremonial: ice cream, crackers, two spoons, and maybe two ounces of pride left. Annie sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, one hand pressing a towel to her inner thigh where I’d left an impression that looked like a bite mark and a meteor strike at the same time.
I crawled on the mattress and dumped the food between us. “Your electrolyte solution, madam.” I popped the lid off her ice cream and jammed the spoon into the carton at an obscene angle. She grinned, digging in, still flushed from sweat and laughter. The first bite made her eyes flip up, and she made a sound so pornographic I nearly pounced on her again on the spot.
“I can’t believe you,” she said, around a mouthful of melting ice cream. “You’re a monster.”
“That has literally never been in dispute,” I replied, and tore open the Cheez-Its. I shoved a handful in my mouth, crumbs dusting my chest, and watched her eat.
It was impossible not to think about how she’d looked twenty minutes ago, body pinned and trembling, then about how it’dfelt to nearly lose her. I was desperate, not just for her body, but for every weird piece of her—every compulsion, every sharp angle, even the human drama she’d dragged in with her.
Annie
Samiel knew exactly how I craved junk food after sex. Showing up like some demonic Adonis with ice cream and Cheez-Its was practically foreplay for another round. I shoveled chocolate fudge brownie into my mouth like I was being timed, letting it drip shamelessly down my thighs.
"Mind-blowing orgasms followed by processed cheese products?" I said, licking my spoon clean with religious devotion. "This is how cults get started. If you proposed right now, I'd not only say yes—I'd let you pick the wedding colors."
He put the ice cream down, and for a second it looked like was going to say something. Then he reached over to the nightstand, rummaged with those ridiculous hands, and pulled out a box so tiny that I didn’t even clock what it was until he held it, black velvet and trembling, between us.
My mouth froze open around the spoon. “No,” I wheezed, a sudden, real panic blooming in my chest.
