Page 87 of The Hunter
His mouth descended, latched onto the exact place she’d felt raw and aching. The contact seared her so abruptly she cried out and contracted. His tongue was a warm weight splitting up the center of her sex, his fingers sank to the knuckle and stroked her from inside.
The darkness exploded into lightning, becoming a white flash that surged through her body on a raw cry. She felt shattered by bliss, beaten with pleasure. It surged through her in brief, intense surges that had her hips lifting against his restraining hand, shoving at it, and then retracting from it.
Even when the storm passed he didn’t pull away. His tongue replaced his fingers, a wet and shallow thrust inside of her, drawing out every drop of her release in audible swallows.
Collapsing to the mattress, Millie stared up into the darkness, too amazed, too pleasured to be astonished by his wickedness. She closed her eyes, feeling the soft glide of his tongue on her hot flesh, feeling pressure building again, enjoying the vibration of his moan against her newly sensitized skin. Then he captured the soft protuberance with his mouth. Sucking, then flicking, then tugging.
And again she went flying. Riding his mouth like she would a wild beast, her shoulders peeling off the floor, her cries echoing off the ceiling. This time she flew too high, the pleasure turned into a burn, and she made a wild grab for his hair, yanking until he detached on a snarl.
“I’m not finished with you.” He strained against her grip.
“I can take no more,” she said, panting. “Please.”
Her limbs felt like pudding, soft and weak. Her lids heavy.
“Is it always like that?” she asked softly. “In your dreams.”
“You’ve never tasted so good.”
“Is it like that with every lover?” she wondered aloud.
“I’ll kill any other man who gives you pleasure,” he said savagely, then paused for a handful of audible breaths.
“What is it?” she crooned, reaching down to thread her fingers in the silky thickness of his hair, his face turned to press against her, his lashes closing against her wrist.
“I don’t want this to be over,” he told the darkness. “I don’t want to wake.”
His lips brushed against her thigh. His kiss was more of a nuzzle that melted what was left of her heart. “No man has ever fucked you.” Possessiveness underscored his gentle tone. “I wonder if anyone has touched you, if they’ve tasted you. If you’re truly, only mine.”
“I am,” she whispered, and the veracity of those words struck her with an astounding force, and she stilled.
He crawled up her body in a slow prowl. Slowly, tentatively he lowered himself over her, pressing her breasts back into his chest, and shuddering as his erection slid against her open thighs. She opened trembling legs wider, accommodating for his bulk settling atop her. He was warmer than before, and she sensed a hesitation beneath the hunger.
“In my dreams I am a beast.” He sounded hollow and she wondered how he could in such a lovely moment. “I hold you beneath me. So you can’t escape.”
A bit of cold air hit the heat between her thighs, producing a shiver. “I won’t stop you,” she said, stifling a yawn of pleasured drowsiness. He felt heavy and warm, like a blanket of desire and sex. He could stay there all night if he wished and she wouldn’t complain one bit.
***
Captured in a bittersweet battle between consuming desire and profound regret, Christopher plunged his arms beneath his dream-lover and buried his face against her hair, knowing it was as inky as the night surrounding him.
He knew how this dream ended. A seductive fantasy that brought him to the brink, and then he woke on a tortured groan with his cock in his hand. Spilling his seed in a hollow parody of the bliss that everything building up to it had promised.
He hated that moment. Hated everything about it. About himself.
The dream had never been this good.
And it never would be again.
“I’m sorry I hurt you last night, when I took you.” He gave the words to dream Millie that he could never say to her in the daylight. She knew, didn’t she? She knew that he’d not meant to hurt her. That he didn’t know she’d been a virgin. That for all the lives he’d taken and the carnage he’d wrought, the sight of her blood made him feel sick and panicky.
The fingers threaded through his hair stroked softly, came to the edge of his scalp and circled back to his hairline to run through the same path.
He’d loved when she’d yanked it earlier. It nearly made him come. But this… this was different. Better, almost. It turned his lust from a bite to an ache. As insistent and demanding but less… savage somehow. For a man who was born in hell, that singular touch was sweeter than the idea of heaven.
“I want you,” he confessed. “I want you like this… beneath me.”
“Then I’m yours.” She lifted her hips, pressing the wetness of her sex against him in a gesture so infinitely sweet, it nearly unstitched him.
