He snakes a hand around my throat, squeezing ever so lightly. I place my palms flat against the shower wall as his other hand seeks the heartbeat between my folds. Hot water cascades down our joined bodies, heightening the passion consuming me.
“Please,” I breathe when he doesn’t move.
“Please what?” he replies gruffly, softly stroking my clit.
“Please fuck me,” I answer unashamed.
Sandman withdraws until only the tip of his dick remains in my body before sinking back into my warm depths. We groan, caught in the whirlwind ecstasy consuming us both.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, tightening his hold around my neck.
“How am I dangerous?” I whisper.
He drops his forehead against my temple. “You make me weak.”
“Then let me go,” I say, my voice cracking the slightest bit.
“Not even if Hell froze over.” He rocks into me over and over again, stroking my insides with long, languid thrusts, pausing briefly when he reaches the hilt of me.
A firestorm of pleasure tilts me on my axis, spreading from my core to the tips of my polished toes. It grows to a fervent crescendo until unadulterated rapture buckles my knees. My lips part, a soundless scream surging from the core of me.
“Zilphia,” Sandman rasps, finding his own release.
I set two full plates of waffles, sausage links, and scrambled eggs on the island, sliding one over to Zilphia.
“Thanks,” she says, offering me a small smile.
I shrug and look away from her. “It’s food, not a fucking marriage proposal.”
She looks down at her plate, her smile disappearing. What the hell am I doing? I cooked her breakfast like some lovesick idiot. That chore usually falls to her, but I took over this morning. I still can’t explain why. I’ve never cooked a meal for the opposite sex before; it’s not my style. A good dick down is the best I can offer.
Woof! Woof!Harley barks, basically telling me to hurry the fuck up with her breakfast in dog language. I scoff at her audacity. She’s always been a spitfire. Mayhem, on the other hand, is calm, cool, and collected for the most part, despite his moniker.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, topping their hearty breakfast with several multivitamins. “It’s coming.” They’ve been on a raw diet since they were eight weeks. I prepared their favorite today—beef liver, chicken hearts, raspberries, and broccoli.
I feel Zilphia’s eyes on me as I place the ceramic bowls on the floor. Mayhem and Harley stay on their bellies near the kitchen entrance, watching me expectantly. They know to wait for my command. I’m alpha here.
“Could you pass me the ketchup, please?”
I nod and grab the tomato-based condiment from the fridge, then hop onto the stool beside her.
“Thanks,” she says, plucking the bottle from my grasp.
Harley and Mayhem are on all fours now, whining for their breakfast.
“Eat,” I instruct them and they bolt across the kitchen, almost knocking each other over. I shake my head, my lips tilting upward in a half smile. You’d think they were starving.
“They eat better than most people,” Zilphia comments before shoving a forkful of ketchup-covered eggs into her mouth.
I grimace, gesturing toward her plate with my fork. “That can’t taste good.”
“It does, actually. You should try it.”
“Nah, I’m good,” I mutter, liberally dousing my waffles in maple syrup. “Ketchup doesn’t go on eggs.”
She shrugs. “So how long have you had Harley and Mayhem?”
“Two and a half years,” I answer, my gaze lingering on her.
