Page 76 of Mistletoe

“There’s no ‘of course,’” he said. He stroked her face, his fingers tracing the shape of her lips and her chin. “Plenty of people would have washed their hands of me.”

“Well, I can’t say I think too much of those people.”

He kissed her, starting slow and increasing in hunger. Soon, his tusks pressed against her lips, demanding more. He made his way along her jaw and down the column of her throat.

He pushed the robe down, exposing her shoulders. Before long, the robe fell to the floor.

Emma ran her hands down his back, enjoying the feel of his strength. She reached his waist and that towel. “I like where this is going,” she said, “but you’ll hurt yourself.”

“It’s only my arm. The rest of me is fine.”

“I don’t want you to rip out your stitches.”

“Then use me.”

“What?” Breath caught in her throat.

“Take what you want from me. I’ll sit here like a good boy and not touch you.”

Emma considered the logistics. “You can touch me. I want you to touch me, but don’t use that arm.”

She reached down, removing the towel and admiring the prize underneath.

Two prizes.

She stroked his member, wrapping her hand around his girth. Her fingers barely met.

Hal bit his lower lip, the tusks pulling on his mouth.

“Tell me you can do that,” she said, running her hand up his length.

“I can.” His voice was hoarse and needy, so needy.

“My good boy,” she said, repeating his words. She gave him a gentle squeeze, eliciting a moan. He was gorgeous when he was like this, needy and desperate.

She shifted on his lap, putting her back to him. His equipment, both sets, pressed against her. She was feeling needy and desperate herself. Everywhere they touched, she tingled.

She lifted herself just enough to get his dick underneath her. She felt him, his thorn and his dick. She rocked forward, sliding against him.

His hand—the one he was allowed to use—rested on her stomach. His olive fingers dug into her stomach. She covered his hand with her own. Her other hand went back, reaching for the back of his head, and pulled him down. His lips went to the curve of her neck, those wonderful tusks scraping as his tongue licked.

“You’re so good,” she said, her voice breathy. She rocked harder, faster. Sensation built in her, starting as a smolder before roaring into a fire. His hand went to her sensitive bud, rubbing as she rode him.

Fire crackled in the stove, its light dancing and shifting across the floor.

She grabbed his braid, pulling hard as her back arched and she cried out.

“Can you take me?” he whispered in her ear.

Emma bit her lower lip. She honestly didn’t know if she could, but she wanted it. How she wanted it.

“I can,” she said. “Let me. I want you in me.”

He groaned, nipping at her ear.

She rose up and slowly, very slowly, lowered herself onto him. There was resistance, pressure building up against her entrance, as he pushed in. Gradually, she worked herself down, stretching around him. She burned exquisitely, aching with the need to have him deeper, to fill her up completely.

He grabbed her hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck. The gentle nibbles stop, replaced by more forceful bites. Sharp teeth and tusks pressed down, nearly breaking the skin.

---