Page 23 of Prayers for the Prickly

His voice quaked when he saidfuckthis time, breaking on the c and forcing him to clear his throat as I writhed on top of him.

“F-fuck, wanna touch you so bad.”

“How is that any different from when I wanted to touch you?” I asked as I canted my hips again and he bucked, hard enough that he almost knocked me off of him.

“Did you just try to send me flying?” I asked as I returned my hands to his shoulders to pin him in place before I started rocking again.

“If it were to have happened it would have been completely by happenstance with no prior planning from me,” Gregor groaned. “In fact, I’d say you prompted it with the way you’re moving, which means I am completely without fault in this situation.”

“Who said anything about fault?” I pointed out. “I certainly didn’t.”

“Good because I don’t want fault to be a factor in this situation, I just want to enjoy this with you,” Gregor groaned.

I could tell he was riding the ragged edge, the scent of his rut was becoming all encompassing.

He surged beneath me again and whimpered, actually whimpered in a way I’d have never imagined coming from a wolverine.

His next growl made our whole bodies quake, but when he reached for me, I shook my finger at him, and he immediately stretched his arms back up to fill the space where the pillow used to be.

“If you don’t let me touch you soon, I’m gonna burn up beneath you and then what will you do?” He groaned, rocking his hips in a series of sharp bucks that nailed the perfect spot inside of me to send a burst of pleasure coursing through my body.

“Reform your ashes with the help of taffy and cotton candy, then let the moonlight and lightning fuse you back together again so I can keep on riding you,” I mewed, my voice so breathy I could barely recognize it as belonging to me.

Groaning and shaking, he writhed while I rode him, speeding up, trying to earn his knot before the final slivers of his control snapped, but we didn’t quite get there.

Rolling his hips, he thrust upward, the tips of his fingers shifting into claws right before he dug them into my ass cheeks and flipped us over. Pinpricks of pain revved up my pleasure as he fully took control, grunting and groaning as he drove into me with jackrabbit speed.

This time the swelling of his knot wasn’t gradual. One minute I was coming, the next minute he was, and we were locked together, my walls stretched to their limits as he pulsed inside of me.

In the aftermath, as we lay wrung out while waiting for his knot to deflate again, he resumed peppering my face with kisses. His face, illuminated in a bright flash of lightning, was the picture of peace and tranquility.

“My mate likes to take control,” he muttered.

“Is that going to be a problem for you?” I asked, nuzzling against the hand cupped to my cheek.

“Not in the slightest. I don’t know what was hotter and I’m too worn out to give it too much thought, but watching you move on top of me turned me on faster than getting to lick the slick off of you, but damn, August, when you gave me thosehow fuckin’ dare youeyes every time I went to move my hands off the bed, I felt a kind of heat surge through me that I’ve never experienced before. You can take over anytime you’d like if that’s the way you’re gonna make me feel. Hell, you can tie me to the bed if you wanna, I don’t care, just promise you’ll never stop taking charge when you want to.”

“Oh, that’s an easy promise to make,” I said as I finally slipped free of his body, allowing him to roll so I could cuddle him. “Not that I’d be able to keep myself in check, even if you wanted me to.”

“Then it’s a good thing on top of me is the only place I want you to keep yourself.”

Chapter 9

Gregor

“Are you whistling? Holy shit, you are whistling!”

Olly’s voice cut through the song and I rolled my eyes when I caught sight of him watching me from the doorway, a feather duster in one hand and what looked to be a business card in the other.

“Why are you back here?” I asked.

“A Mr. Charles Burdett just stopped in,” Olly explained. “He wanted to know if you’d be willing to sit down with him to talk about a collection of original pieces to serve as centerpieces on the tables at his daughter’s wedding next year. He’s also an interior designer who is interested in referring several clients to you. Apparently, he’s done a few of the beach side homes along the coastline and the driftwood aesthetic has become pretty popular again. He thought they’d go wild over the original pieces and asked a whole lot of questions about how commissions worked, too. If you ask me, which I know you haven’t yet but oh well, I think you should meet with him.”

For once I wasn’t tempted to interrupt one of his tirades. Maybe it was because he was right in everything he was saying, or maybe it was just that I was too busy enjoying the lingering stings of the scratches that ran down my arms and over my shoulders, and the ghostly echo of August’s fingers on my skin.

“Go ahead and set it up,” I told him when he finished speaking. “The centerpieces are an original concept; I’ve never had anyone come in here asking for anything remotely close to that. It would be nice to have the chance to design my first collection. Did he happen to mention if he was thinking people or animals?” I asked, hoping he said animals because I preferred doing those over anything else.

“He mentioned something about wacky seagulls clutching sandwiches,” Olly explained. “He wanted all manner of poses and positions showing the bird mid-theft of the sandwich, since the couple’s little meet-cute involved a determined seagull and sandwich bits that got dropped on someone’s head.

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