“Here,” she said kindly. With one hand, she grasped him, stroked him up and down, watching how his eyes narrowed to slits, his cheeks flamed red. She shifted, let her bottom land on the next step down and then the next, until she could take him into her mouth, just the tip—just a taste.
Andrew groaned and touched her head. Was he seeking permission? She grasped his hand and shoved it into her hair, showing him. This is what I want.
Without hesitation, he tightened his fist and tilted her head back, his face going from flushed and lost to hard and animal. That change hit her low in her belly, as did the groan he let loose.
She pulled away from licking him. “I want to suck you,” she forced herself to say, her voice edged with something hard and brittle but stronger than she’d have imagined. “I want you to…” Make me. God, she couldn’t say it, couldn’t even think the words. Being used by a man was masturbation material—not something she’d ever thought she’d actually try.
She must have said the words, she realized with a start, because he did it. That was all it took to release the creature caged inside him. Face hard with lust and power, he pulled at her hair—so hard it almost hurt—and lifted her up.
“You want this?” he asked, voice ragged.
“Yes. Yes, I want you to…do things to me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Please. I want this. Please.”
A swift pinch of her nipple made her gasp and scramble slightly—only she couldn’t scramble far, because his hands closed around her hips, tightened, and rolled her onto her stomach.
I couldn’t move even if I wanted to, she realized with a jolt of hot shock as he put her where he wanted her, showing her how strong he was. The words brute strength floated through her mind, turning the shock into something more visceral, shaded with images of cavemen hunting down their prey. Her knees hurt where they ground into the step.
Good thing I don’t want to move. The thought edged on shame, that ridiculous image of being bested by the caveman, but she let that go—she let it all go, the fear, the guilt, the weight of responsibility.
She felt him shift, fumble at something, then a plastic crinkle and the acrid smell of rubber.
On her hands and knees now, with Andrew Blane’s bulk behind her, she waited for him to do it. For the longest time—a handful of seconds probably, but it felt like forever—he stayed there, mighty and unyielding, but also shuddering in a way that said he was close to losing control.
She turned to look at him over her shoulder, caught those wild, dark eyes, and said, “Fuck me.”
The words pushed through whatever hesitation he still had, until she felt the blunt tip of his cock slowly, inexorably easing its way into her body. He was hot, stretching her, the feeling so new it was like learning how all over again.
While her mind continued to adjust, her body seemed to know exactly what it was doing, bringing out a side of herself she’d completely forgotten. The animal in her: instinctual, elemental, basic. She craned her neck to get a look at his face.
We’re not civilized at all, she thought as he filled her again and again, faster with every thrust, his body enveloping hers, his testicles slapping her thighs, the slippery, sweaty smack of his hips loud in the still night air.
He was saying things, she could tell—although, being nothing but a creature of the senses now, she couldn’t decipher the actual words. Only that they were guttural and raw, probably too harsh for her soft insides.
George jolted at the sound of him smacking her bottom before she even felt the sting of it, but she involuntarily tightened around him, and he groaned louder, thrust harder—hitting her high, on the cervix, before leaning forward, truly bestial now, to bite her neck, hard and marking. Mating.
George had never done sex quite like this. Never. Not as a horny teen, nor as a loving spouse. And as her body reacted with intrinsic knowledge, it wasn’t a memory so much as instinct. Deep and ancient and rooted in her genetic code.
Hands on her hips, lifting her to meet him, holding her buttocks apart, spreading her wide so he could get in deep… And that bite, that brand of ownership, made George grunt long and low—the kind of sound she’d never uttered in her thirty-three years on earth—and climax hard, the sensation new and unexpectedly moving.
* * *
Clay’s orgasm came too fast, too hard, an uncontrollable blast that left him gasping and immobile, collapsed over George’s back.
He didn’t want to move, wanted to stay in this blissful limbo, wrapped around this woman who’d thrown him for such a loop.
Slowly, things began to refocus. She shifted, and he woke up to her position on the steps—splayed out on hands and knees with nothing but wood to cushion her. With a final squeeze, he pulled back, gave himself a moment to take her in from top to bottom…and froze when his eyes landed on her neck.
Tooth marks. Deep and red and painful-looking.
I did that. I hurt her.
And there, on the stairs, it came hurtling at him—the guilt, the fucking sea of guilt. For everything, for all of it. For sitting there, just listening and pretending to agree while Ape and Handles and Boom-Boom planned the murder of a local sheriff’s deputy who’d gotten too curious. For drinking and fighting and joining them in their vicious, raucous partying. For flirting and fucking when he had to. And worst of all—Jesus Christ, far worse than anything else—for feeling it, wanting it, actually becoming a part of it all.
Now, here, he’d brought that to her.
