Page 13 of Bred By the Barge

In a ridiculously sexy move, he unfastens my belt and works the buttons of my trousers free with one hand. His arm flexes under my nape as he shifts me around for better access to the second pair of pants hidden under the top layer. The hard planes of his chest fill my vision until I glance down.

My insides clench and I can’t look away as his knuckles slide under the fabric between my legs as he checks for a third pair of pants. Electricity spears through me as his digits brush against my thin underwear. Even with the fabric between us, my body reacts to his touch.

I close my eyes.

He pulls his hand free and tucks his thumb into my waistbands before tugging all three over my hip. With a few twists and turns, he pulls the last of my clothes off my body and tosses them across the room.

I lie naked in his arms. My heart thrums against my sternum. Cool air wafts over my legs.

His thick fingers wrap around my hip and give a light squeeze before ghosting down my thigh. Goosebumps pepper my entire body. With only the damp fabric of his pants between us, the thick, hard length of his cock nestles against my ass.

A flash of heat clears away the haze of alcohol, but his purr protects me from my pain.

I mourn the loss of his hand when he lifts it from my thigh, but suck in a startled breath when he gathers my wrists out of my lap, passes them to his other hand, and lifts them above my shoulder. I cringe, expecting my wound to complain, but he stops before the bandage pulls tight over my torn flesh.

He leans to the side and retrieves the shower head. I watch his face through my eyelashes as he aims the spray at my body. The warmth of the water is nothing compared to the heat in his eyes. My stomach clenches and need pulses through me.

I like his possessive, hungry gaze on me.

He releases the hose and produces a bar of soap. I shiver in anticipation as he lathers a washcloth, never taking his eyes off me.

Slippery warmth glides over my skin. He covers me in soap from my belly to my toes, keeping the washcloth between us. It’s torture. I need more.

My breasts tighten and nipples harden further as he parts my knees and runs his covered hand up my inner thigh. I gasp as he settles his palm over the whole of my sex.

I drown in wonderful sensations as he sinks his fingers between my folds and explores my most intimate area. When his thumb circles my clit through the washcloth, I arch my back and whine for more, but he skims his hand up my abdomen and palms each of my breasts.

An inferno rages within my core. I writhe only for him to drop the washcloth and pick up the showerhead.

He rinses me with meticulous attention, teasing us both by deepening his purr and spending extra time between my legs.

His pants chafe my skin. I hate the barrier. I need to explore every inch of him. He needs to touch me everywhere and ease the ache he created between my legs. Anger snaps through me without warning and I snarl.

My alpha stills.

He chuckles. The vibration spears through my organs.

He turns off the water and releases my wrists. My omega instincts wail at the loss of his domineering grip, but he fulfills fantasies buried deep within my DNA and manhandles me onto my knees between his legs. He braces my elbows on his thighs and settles his massive hands over my bandaged wrists, silently demanding I keep them where he put them, before he moves both hands to his belt. I watch in fascination as he unbuckles, unbuttons, and unzips. The leashed power in his movement is sexy and enticing.

Ice runs down my spine as I imagine my sister’s reaction when her attacker did the same, but my mind skids to a halt when he lifts his hips and frees his cock.

No creature in all of existence should ever have such a massive weapon between their legs.

With a broad, mushroom-shaped head, a slight upward curve, and veins near the bulge of his knot, his shaft both intrigues and terrifies me. My mouth waters as pungent alpha pheromones invade my nostrils.

I want to taste him.

Memories of finding my sister bloody and broken send ice down my spine.

I lean back, but thick fingers weave into my hair and pull my face toward his tip. Panic squeezes my chest.

Masculine rumbles shatter my defenses. I reflexively try to sink my nails into his hip and hiss in pain.

“Be a good girl and open your mouth, tiny treasure.”

I shake my head as much as his grip on my hair will allow. He grabs his partially inflated knot and rubs his leaking tip over my cheeks and chin.

“I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I? How can I do that if you won’t open this pretty little mouth and taste my seed?”

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