Page 42 of Howl for the Gargoyle

"You know what I want," Hannah whispered. My breaths heaved as I stared up at her, and she pet my cheek once, bent to nuzzle it, and then whispered in my ear, "What's the rule, Rafe?"

She sat up, and I blinked at her. She was slowing down even more now, gliding up and down my length, stopping at the base to work herself against me.

"Rule?" I asked, lost in the view of her, all predator's grace and woman's lust.

"You know it," she said. "Say it."

I swallowed hard and stared at her. There were words on my tongue, but they were…not rules. More like a gift.

"Say it," she growled, stopping altogether.

And so I did, even though half of me didn't believe it was what she meant at all.

"We fuck till I come."

"Yesss," she hissed, moving again, cupping her long fingers around my throat. "Good boy."

I moaned, and then I was moving with her, almost frantic with need, knowing I would have to wait, that it would be worth it, that she would give me this. She kissed me again and I gave up on air, on thought, on anything but her. I would share the ecstasy; I'd make her come again and again before I reached my own finish.

The rule.

I gasped and reached between us. "Wanna feel you squeezing me again."

And Hannah arched above me, letting me rub her clit as she rode me, until she was shouting my name this time, milking my stubborn cock, drawing me in closer to the edge. We'd get there, and I'd give her everything I could before we reached that point.

"More," I snarled, sitting up and sealing her mouth to mine.

CHAPTER 16

Hannah

I woke to the sound of gravel falling. My body ached, but it didn't feel freshly sewn back together like it usually would after a full moon. I was bundled in cool, firm flesh, and surprisingly comfortable considering I knew it was Rafe. But the only truly hard part of him at the moment was—

The gravel crackled in my ear, and I snorted out a laugh as I realized what the sound was. Rafe was snoring and it sounded like pebbles.

His left wing was covering us, top hook pinned down into a pillow, and I reached out, recalling the little flecks of color I'd seen gleaming through the thin but impenetrable material. I stroked the flesh with my now clawless fingertips, marveling at the smooth and almost leathery soft texture, and behind me Rafe snuggled closer. I smiled to myself. He was so sensitive.

And such a good fuck, a rougher voice crooned in my head. I stiffened briefly, recognizing that tone and hunger. And with the voice, I recalled the night before in vivid detail—the joy of running, of hunting Rafe, of pinning him to the ground and growling filth into his ear until he was a whimpering, panting, pleading mess. And oh, how pretty he had looked as he'd come, gasping with relief, eyes wide and voice babbling gratitudes.

I was absently petting at his wing, biting my lip against the ghost memory of Rafe's wild bucking inside of me, when he released a groan in my ear and tightened his arms around me.

"Hannah."

My eyes shut at my name, at the way it fell begging from his lips. I'd never heard so much need in one word. I'd never had anyone look at me the way Rafe did while we fucked, so stunned and rapt. It was the same power as being on stage in front of an audience, holding them in the palm of my hand right before a chorus we all knew the words to. Except instead of hundreds of pairs of eyes, it was just the one, just Rafe staring at me like he was afraid I would evaporate if he blinked.

His thigh slid between mine, one hand moving just enough to cup and squeeze at my breast. He lifted my leg and then he was sliding inside me, my hips pitching back to meet his, our moans mingling together. Simple, easy, perfect.

"Morning," he rasped in my ear, setting a languid pace at my back, hips circling in and out.

"Morning," I whimpered out, reaching a hand back to grab at his shoulder but stretching to find his wing root instead. Rafe grunted and I had a brief, giddy vision of being at Rafe's back, holding those tender spots in a firm grip and—

Rafe's other hand slid down between my thighs, and the thought was stolen away. I would study it later, after. Right now, I didn't want to waste this hazy moment.

If I was drooling, I blamed it on the scents of garlic and onions sizzling in the skillet, and not on the outrageously pert and round ass jiggling to music on the radio. Rafe was bent over the counter, wearing an apron and nothing else—good boy—working on our afternoon breakfast. His wings were also vaguely dancing to the music, huge and ungainly as they were. I could've been resting in bed or lounging in the bath or stretching on one of the yoga mats tucked into a corner of the living room.

Instead, I was watching the beautiful man making me breakfast, bouncing slightly off beat to the music, chopping vegetables with a careless ease. I wondered if it was less intimidating to chop like that if you knew the knife couldn't cut you, or if Rafe had been trained.

I opened my mouth to ask when the song on the radio changed, a too-familiar bar of music blaring over the speakers.

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