be sure—but a moment later he eased his grip. “Give me your mouth.”
She parted her lips immediately, every fiber of her being focused on the moment when he would let go. Not this first time, perhaps not even this first night, but at some point the scales would tip, and his need for her would override his need for control.
For now he seemed to revel in that control, in the ways he could control her. His finger thrust deeper, and then his tongue, a dizzy interplay of claiming and retreating, leaving none of her unpossessed.
Ophelia bit his tongue and rocked against his finger. A dangerous game, testing a hound’s control, but one she couldn’t help but play.
In response, he growled against her mouth and worked another finger into her, stretching her. It sharpened the ache almost unbearably, so she gasped into his mouth and closed her teeth on his lower lip.
His low, pleased chuckle spilled over her as he lifted his head. Then his touch disappeared, only to return as teasing, barely-there circles around her clit. “Use your own fingers,” he demanded, his gaze fixed on her in the mirror. “Show me.”
Every warning she’d ever received about the perils of taunting a bloodhound vanished. Hunter wasn’t a lust-addled hound who needed sheer relief, to feel a woman coming on his cock. He’d rejected Sylvie and claimed her , a fact that gave her power. Freedom.
As long as she didn’t run from him, she could push.
Ophelia slid a hand over one breast, pausing to catch her nipple between her fingers with a sharp tug. Then she kept going and finally shoved his hand out of the way. “Excuse me.”
He caught her wrist with a wild snarl—but he didn’t stop her.
Stroking herself was less intense than his touch, but having him watch her magnified her anticipation and pleasure. She drew it out, slow and easy, each touch softer than the last until she finally rocked two fingers deep inside.
“Beautiful.” He covered her hand with his own, broad fingers urging her deeper. “Come around those pretty little fingers so I can lick them clean.”
Oh Christ. Ophelia swallowed hard and breathed his name as she began to roll her hips, thrusting against her hand. His eyes slitted, breath escaping on a groan every time she rocked back against his hardened cock.
Heaven. She braced her free hand on his thigh and slowed her hips to grind over his lap. He groaned louder, his grip on her wrist tightening, and her vision wavered as tense pleasure quaked through her.
That was when he closed his teeth on her throat, primal and possessive.
Ophelia whimpered as she rode out the blinding orgasm. She clutched at Hunter, then realized she was begging him with words as well as her touch. “Please, love. Please—”
His control shattered. It could have been her grasping hands or her release or something else entirely, and she couldn’t bring herself to care as he tumbled her back to the bed on her hands and knees. He slid his palm up her spine, pushing her upper body toward the bed as he stroked her hip.
Then he pressed the blunt head of his cock against her. “This? Is this what you want?”
“Yes.” She needed it, like water or air. “Hunter.”
He surged forward, hard and thick enough to make her bite her lip to stifle a gasp. If she’d been less aroused, less ready for him, it might have hurt.
Instead, he filled every hungry place inside her. “Perfect,” she breathed. “You’re perfect.”
“I’m not done,” he rasped, easing back. The next thrust pushed deeper, and he groaned and worked into her with short, rocking movements, his fingers digging into her hip. “Too much?”
She clenched her hands in the covers. “Hunter?”
He froze. Shuddered.
She met his wild gaze in the mirror and exhaled on a shaky sigh. “Shut up and fuck me.”
For an endless moment, there was silence. No sound, not even his harsh breathing. Then he laughed, a dark sound full of pleasure and intent, as he straightened and curled
She parted her lips immediately, every fiber of her being focused on the moment when he would let go. Not this first time, perhaps not even this first night, but at some point the scales would tip, and his need for her would override his need for control.
For now he seemed to revel in that control, in the ways he could control her. His finger thrust deeper, and then his tongue, a dizzy interplay of claiming and retreating, leaving none of her unpossessed.
Ophelia bit his tongue and rocked against his finger. A dangerous game, testing a hound’s control, but one she couldn’t help but play.
In response, he growled against her mouth and worked another finger into her, stretching her. It sharpened the ache almost unbearably, so she gasped into his mouth and closed her teeth on his lower lip.
His low, pleased chuckle spilled over her as he lifted his head. Then his touch disappeared, only to return as teasing, barely-there circles around her clit. “Use your own fingers,” he demanded, his gaze fixed on her in the mirror. “Show me.”
Every warning she’d ever received about the perils of taunting a bloodhound vanished. Hunter wasn’t a lust-addled hound who needed sheer relief, to feel a woman coming on his cock. He’d rejected Sylvie and claimed her , a fact that gave her power. Freedom.
As long as she didn’t run from him, she could push.
Ophelia slid a hand over one breast, pausing to catch her nipple between her fingers with a sharp tug. Then she kept going and finally shoved his hand out of the way. “Excuse me.”
He caught her wrist with a wild snarl—but he didn’t stop her.
Stroking herself was less intense than his touch, but having him watch her magnified her anticipation and pleasure. She drew it out, slow and easy, each touch softer than the last until she finally rocked two fingers deep inside.
“Beautiful.” He covered her hand with his own, broad fingers urging her deeper. “Come around those pretty little fingers so I can lick them clean.”
Oh Christ. Ophelia swallowed hard and breathed his name as she began to roll her hips, thrusting against her hand. His eyes slitted, breath escaping on a groan every time she rocked back against his hardened cock.
Heaven. She braced her free hand on his thigh and slowed her hips to grind over his lap. He groaned louder, his grip on her wrist tightening, and her vision wavered as tense pleasure quaked through her.
That was when he closed his teeth on her throat, primal and possessive.
Ophelia whimpered as she rode out the blinding orgasm. She clutched at Hunter, then realized she was begging him with words as well as her touch. “Please, love. Please—”
His control shattered. It could have been her grasping hands or her release or something else entirely, and she couldn’t bring herself to care as he tumbled her back to the bed on her hands and knees. He slid his palm up her spine, pushing her upper body toward the bed as he stroked her hip.
Then he pressed the blunt head of his cock against her. “This? Is this what you want?”
“Yes.” She needed it, like water or air. “Hunter.”
He surged forward, hard and thick enough to make her bite her lip to stifle a gasp. If she’d been less aroused, less ready for him, it might have hurt.
Instead, he filled every hungry place inside her. “Perfect,” she breathed. “You’re perfect.”
“I’m not done,” he rasped, easing back. The next thrust pushed deeper, and he groaned and worked into her with short, rocking movements, his fingers digging into her hip. “Too much?”
She clenched her hands in the covers. “Hunter?”
He froze. Shuddered.
She met his wild gaze in the mirror and exhaled on a shaky sigh. “Shut up and fuck me.”
For an endless moment, there was silence. No sound, not even his harsh breathing. Then he laughed, a dark sound full of pleasure and intent, as he straightened and curled
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