Page 72 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter
And then he sees me—truly sees me.
His green eyes lock with mine, heavy with something dark and dangerous and holy.
A kiss lands just above the bite. Then another. And another—each one closer to where I need him.
I nod.
That’s all it takes.
His hands slide beneath my hips and lift me like I weigh nothing, cradling me closer to his face—and then his mouth covers me.
“Oh—” I gasp, the sound punched straight out of my lungs.
He moans.
God help me, he groans into my pussy like he’s starving, like this is the first real meal he’s ever had and he’s ready to worship every inch of me with his tongue.
And he does.
He devours me.
His mouth is hot, wet, unrelenting—tongue stroking through my folds, circling my clit, then sliding deep inside me to taste the slick pooling there. His arms wrap under my thighs to hold me open, to keep me right where he wants me, and he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pause.
My climax crashes into me without warning.
I cry out, nails digging into his scalp, thighs squeezing his head as I fall apart—and he groans again, lapping up every ounce of it, like he’s addicted to the taste of my surrender.
I don’t even have time to catch my breath before the next one builds—fast and desperate. His lips close around my clit and suck, tongue flicking until I’m shaking, sobbing, babbling nonsense.
“Javi—please—oh, God?—”
He growls.
The sound vibrates through me, rumbling against the most sensitive part of me, and I shatter all over again.
It’s too much. It’s not enough. I want to crawl inside his mouth and live there forever.
And then—he stops.
“Fuck!”
He tears himself away like he’s breaking chains, stumbling back from the bed, his hands yanking at his own hair as he breathes hard and fast like a man barely holding onto control.
I lie there dazed, dizzy, ruined.
Every part of me is still throbbing. Tingling. My thighs are slick and shaking, my nipples tight under the stretched fabric of his shirt. My chest rises and falls with short, frantic breaths, my heart pounding so loud I can barely think.
I push myself up on trembling arms, dazed and aching and humiliated by the depth of my own wanting.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper, already knowing the answer.
He turns on me like I slapped him—eyes molten green, wild and hot, too much and not enough.
“You are what’s wrong,” he snaps.
The words cut deep. I flinch.
Then I recover—and my spine stiffens.
