this time she squeezed with her hands, making an even tighter restriction.
“Ooh.”
Her purr accompanied her hand movements, while her hips lunged up at him in little jerks as if to connect them. And that’s why he grabbed the waistband of her pants and ripped the damn things open. It was her fault.
She didn’t wear panties . Or, if she did, they were a casualty along with her pants because the moment he had her denims splayed open, he was in. Hilt deep. Gripped in place. Held tight. The sensation was accompanied by his deep cry that resounded through the entire square footage of his lower floor. The feel of her obliterated everything in his entire repertoire, overriding experiences, and creating new ones. He nearly sobbed aloud at it.
“Oh . Wow.”
Her words reverberated with absolute awe. Amazement. Maybe even the same tension, desire, and complete need he faced. He’d ask, but he wasn’t willing to wait long enough to find out. Her legs moved, locking about his hips as Devereaux pulled out only to ease back in. And then he did it again. And again. Each move accompanied by shaking. His shaking. Brought on by the actual physical feel of each coil and ridge about him. Again. He moved a bit faster, the increased motion adding realms of heat and thrill and friction to each thrust while the couch flexed and creaked beneath them. The sound grew. In volume and tempo. Matching their rhythm. Again. Over. He watched with unblinking eyes as his mate panted, gasping for air, little cries accompanying each breath, as her release grew nearer. Closer. Devereaux increased his strokes. His timing. Working and striving, and then watching raptly as Sydney flung her head back to keen a cry into the room. Ecstasy filled him at her shuddering. Her release. And that thrill carried pride because it was him giving it to her. Masculine pleasure. And he wanted it again. And more of it. Lots more.
Dev pushed his upper torso up, gaining more stability. Her legs gripped tighter to him. The couch creaked and groaned with every thrust he made. But it held. Supported. Anchored.
And then he felt it . The loss of command. The rigid restraint slipped. Perfection of experience and sensation blended into a flurry of basic need. And want. And primal power. His own body betrayed him. Devereaux couldn’t control the thrusting power of his own frame, dominating his will, manipulating his stamina. And she helped. Her cries coming one upon the other, while her loins pounded against him. Over and over. Again and again. Every thrust starting to gouge a chunk of plaster from the wall.
He couldn’t halt it . He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t even modify it. All he could do was careen right over a precipice and into a pool of such wonder, he was sobbing. And shaking. And emptying. Heat and fulfillment shredded through centuries of nothingness. Accompanied by the longest, harshest groan he’d ever given. He’d never felt like this.
Ever .
He didn’t know what to do . What to say. How to act.
Devereaux’s cry ended with a harsh sobbed note ; his body slowly stopped pulsing, and then he looked down. Into the beatific features of his mate. So beautiful. So loving. So amazing. She smiled up at him. And…
Oh no.
She had fangs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“VAL Headquarters. Nigel speaking. How may I direct—? Oh. Hi D.C. Long time. Like…three days. How’s the weather down there in NOLA? Hot, steamy, and ‘ditch-the-clothing’ humid?”
“Hi Squirt,” Devereaux answered.
“Any sweet happenings? Man! You have the perfect un-life! Living in U.P.C. like that. I’m so stinkin’ jealous I could spit nails. If - of course - I ate them. Hey, I wonder…? Any chance you could talk to the old man for me? I mean wow. Think of the potential. U.P.C. and me. And I gotta tell you, Man. We’re missing a huge opportunity here. I really know how to par-tay.
“Ooh.”
Her purr accompanied her hand movements, while her hips lunged up at him in little jerks as if to connect them. And that’s why he grabbed the waistband of her pants and ripped the damn things open. It was her fault.
She didn’t wear panties . Or, if she did, they were a casualty along with her pants because the moment he had her denims splayed open, he was in. Hilt deep. Gripped in place. Held tight. The sensation was accompanied by his deep cry that resounded through the entire square footage of his lower floor. The feel of her obliterated everything in his entire repertoire, overriding experiences, and creating new ones. He nearly sobbed aloud at it.
“Oh . Wow.”
Her words reverberated with absolute awe. Amazement. Maybe even the same tension, desire, and complete need he faced. He’d ask, but he wasn’t willing to wait long enough to find out. Her legs moved, locking about his hips as Devereaux pulled out only to ease back in. And then he did it again. And again. Each move accompanied by shaking. His shaking. Brought on by the actual physical feel of each coil and ridge about him. Again. He moved a bit faster, the increased motion adding realms of heat and thrill and friction to each thrust while the couch flexed and creaked beneath them. The sound grew. In volume and tempo. Matching their rhythm. Again. Over. He watched with unblinking eyes as his mate panted, gasping for air, little cries accompanying each breath, as her release grew nearer. Closer. Devereaux increased his strokes. His timing. Working and striving, and then watching raptly as Sydney flung her head back to keen a cry into the room. Ecstasy filled him at her shuddering. Her release. And that thrill carried pride because it was him giving it to her. Masculine pleasure. And he wanted it again. And more of it. Lots more.
Dev pushed his upper torso up, gaining more stability. Her legs gripped tighter to him. The couch creaked and groaned with every thrust he made. But it held. Supported. Anchored.
And then he felt it . The loss of command. The rigid restraint slipped. Perfection of experience and sensation blended into a flurry of basic need. And want. And primal power. His own body betrayed him. Devereaux couldn’t control the thrusting power of his own frame, dominating his will, manipulating his stamina. And she helped. Her cries coming one upon the other, while her loins pounded against him. Over and over. Again and again. Every thrust starting to gouge a chunk of plaster from the wall.
He couldn’t halt it . He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t even modify it. All he could do was careen right over a precipice and into a pool of such wonder, he was sobbing. And shaking. And emptying. Heat and fulfillment shredded through centuries of nothingness. Accompanied by the longest, harshest groan he’d ever given. He’d never felt like this.
Ever .
He didn’t know what to do . What to say. How to act.
Devereaux’s cry ended with a harsh sobbed note ; his body slowly stopped pulsing, and then he looked down. Into the beatific features of his mate. So beautiful. So loving. So amazing. She smiled up at him. And…
Oh no.
She had fangs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“VAL Headquarters. Nigel speaking. How may I direct—? Oh. Hi D.C. Long time. Like…three days. How’s the weather down there in NOLA? Hot, steamy, and ‘ditch-the-clothing’ humid?”
“Hi Squirt,” Devereaux answered.
“Any sweet happenings? Man! You have the perfect un-life! Living in U.P.C. like that. I’m so stinkin’ jealous I could spit nails. If - of course - I ate them. Hey, I wonder…? Any chance you could talk to the old man for me? I mean wow. Think of the potential. U.P.C. and me. And I gotta tell you, Man. We’re missing a huge opportunity here. I really know how to par-tay.
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