Page 88 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
Maxwell’s fingers threaded through my hair, not pulling, just resting there with a trembling restraint that told me how close he was to losing control. Iglanced up through my lashes to find his eyes locked on me, dark with hunger, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.
I dragged my tongue upward in a languid spiral, savouring the salt of his skin, the heat radiating against my lips. When I reached the crown, a glistening bead of precum had formed at the tip.
One taste. That’s all it took.
The flavor exploded across my tongue. Salt. Musk. Maxwell. Lemongrass. Raindrops.
Something in me snapped.
I took him in.
Hard.
With a hunger that made time fracture around us, my lips stretched around his considerable girth as I welcomed him into the wet heat of my mouth. Andoh.The taste of him—theweightof him—rewrote every fantasy I’d ever entertained.
A strangled sound tore from his throat as I began to move, my tongue mapping every ridge and vein with devoted attention. His hips jerked involuntarily, seeking more, and I gave it to him, drawing him deeper until I could feel the blunt head of his cock nudging the back of my throat.
“Christ,” he gasped, his voice wrecked and desperate.
I set a rhythm that had him trembling against the wall, my mouth working him with increasing fervor. His fingers tightened in my hair—not pulling, but anchoring himself as I lavished attention on every inch of him. The cottage filled with the sounds of our shared desperation: his ragged breathing, my soft moans of appreciation, the wet slide of lips and tongue.
I hollowed my cheeks and drew him in even deeper.
Not all the way—not as far into my throat as I’d like—but enough.
Enough to hear that broken sound tear from his chest.
Enough to know I was ruining him.
Iwas making him make those noises.Me.
“Rory!” he cried, my only warning as he pulsed hot and thick across my tongue. He tried desperately to pull away, but I held him fast, drinking him down greedily, gorging myself on the taste of him. My wolf howled with satisfaction, a primal pleasure at having him on my tongue, down my throat. When I finally pulled back, my chest heaved as I caught my breath.
Maxwell’s dick still glistened with traces of saliva and cum. I leaned forward again, dragging my tongue slowly along his length, cleaning him thoroughly as he groaned above me, his fingers still tangled loosely in my hair.
I sat back on my heels, finally taking in the full picture of us—Maxwell, breathless against the wall, cum-covered jeans pooled around his ankles, shirt rucked up.
Maxwell seemed to have the same thought. He kicked off his jeans and pants, then reached down to snatch the blanket from the floor. He wrapped it around his waist, while I remained kneeling there, utterly naked.
“There’s no need for this to be awkward,” I said quickly, the words tumbling out. “It’s just sex.”
Though something about those words didn’t feel right on my tongue. Something about those words sent a flutter of panic through me.
“I’m not feeling awkward,” Maxwell said, his voice stiff, his posture even stiffer as he clutched the blanket around his waist like a shield.
It was such a blatant lie that I laughed, loudly.
Sighing deeply, Maxwell crossed the room and threw himself on the sofa, wiping his face with his hand. Just as I was about to remind him whose idea that whole thing was, he spoke.
“I’m sorry. I am feeling awkward. I’m not going to sit here and say, ‘we shouldn’t have done that,’ like a twat, but I’m not completely blind to the consequences either.”
I joined him on the sofa, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at my shoulder. I’d definitely overdone it. Placing a cushion over my dick for some semblance of modesty, I said, “What consequences? Seriously, I’ll be totally normal tomorrow. My usual, irritating self.” I paused. “Actually, slightly less irritating, because of the super hot sex, but that’s a positive consequence, so there.”
A genuine laugh escaped him then, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He looked at me when he said, “You know, I don’t usually enjoy sex.”
I blinked at him. “What? Why?” How could someone who kissed like that, who touched like that, who made those sounds, not enjoy sex?
Maxwell sighed, running a hand through his short coils, the tight curls springing straight back into place. “It’s… complicated. Being a telepath during sex is…” He searched for words. “I can make it good for the other person, obviously. I know exactly what they want. But I also hear their insecurities, their comparisons to previous partners.” His voice dropped low. “You know, when they’re thinking they’ve had better. When they’re imagining someone else.”
