that human women had to be too
fragile for what they wanted sexually. One wrong move and a night of consensual
sex could end in a homicide. Of that she was certain.
“Pinkie?” Diskant’s throaty murmur of concern snapped her
out of her dark musings.
Quickly clearing her throat, she managed to respond evenly,
“Wine sounds great.”
He shifted his hips as he passed, allowing her to feel the
firm ridge of his cock as it was pressed between his leather pants and her
cotton shirt. Her breath caught and a spasm at the apex of her thighs was
followed by a fiery flood of wetness as arousal rained from her sex and coated
her panties. Thighs quaking, she bit her lower lip again and forced herself to
remain still. She would not give in to the knee-jerk reaction to clench her
legs together. If she did he would notice, and she did have some pride left.
Although she knew he could smell her desire, Diskant didn’t
say a word, behaving like an utter gentleman and leaving the kitchen to
retrieve the wine as promised. She watched as his body rippled beneath his
tight black turtleneck, the muscles in his shoulders contorting and stretching
as walked from the room and vanished past the entranceway.
She sagged onto the counter and laid her head on her folded
arms, forcing herself to breathe through her nose rather than pant like a bitch
in heat. The fragrant aroma of chicken parmesan would have beckoned if her body
weren’t so damn hot and achy. Once upon a time she’d yearned for this kind of
sexual tension. However, back then the man she’d wanted it from hadn’t
frightened her or made her entire body burn. Whereas Martin had been quiet,
intellectual and nonthreatening, Diskant was brash, masculine and powerful.
They were polar opposites and, for a split second, she wondered how in the holy
hell she’d ever been attracted to her one-time fiancé in the first place.
While mentally stimulating, Martin had never been able to
satisfy her sexually. The more she’d tried to initiate play in the bedroom, the
more he’d rebelled against the notion. He was a missionary man through and
through, which was why she’d finally ended their engagement altogether. Being
in control of her life, her brother’s screw-ups, and dealing with the
increasing annoyances of the Villati drained her. She needed one place she
could relinquish the weight of responsibility, allowing her to simply be for a while.
Diskant would give her that. There was no way he would allow
her to boss him around or dictate how they wrangled sexually in the bedroom.
What would it be like to have him tell her what to do? To grant him the
authority to take his pleasure as he pleased and, in turn, nourish her own? As
a shifter, he would be disease free and safe. What would it be like to have a
night of sex without any worries or repercussions?
Her already drenched panties got another thorough dousing at
the prospect.
Damn, damn, damn!
Stop it already and pull it together. Focus on the food,
the room, the atmosphere. Think about anything but Diskant’s body, mouth and
the impressive size of his cock…
“Just wonderful,” she muttered. “I’m officially on the
ballot for slut of the year.”
She ripped the Styrofoam containers from the paper bag in
careless jerks and tugs. Diskant would be back at any moment and at this rate
she wouldn’t have to beg him to do squat. His impeccable sense of smell would
tell him all he needed to know the minute he took a seat at the table, poured
the wine and smelled the air.
By the time he returned she’d managed to calm down, place
the now-prepared dishes on the table and take her own seat. She intentionally
put as much space between them as possible, situating her plate on the other
side of the circular table. Sometimes the only thing a woman could do was play
defense and hope for the best. If he sat next to her she’d be too tempted to
hop up on the wooden surface, drop trou and ask him if he wanted dessert before
his meal.
A
fragile for what they wanted sexually. One wrong move and a night of consensual
sex could end in a homicide. Of that she was certain.
“Pinkie?” Diskant’s throaty murmur of concern snapped her
out of her dark musings.
Quickly clearing her throat, she managed to respond evenly,
“Wine sounds great.”
He shifted his hips as he passed, allowing her to feel the
firm ridge of his cock as it was pressed between his leather pants and her
cotton shirt. Her breath caught and a spasm at the apex of her thighs was
followed by a fiery flood of wetness as arousal rained from her sex and coated
her panties. Thighs quaking, she bit her lower lip again and forced herself to
remain still. She would not give in to the knee-jerk reaction to clench her
legs together. If she did he would notice, and she did have some pride left.
Although she knew he could smell her desire, Diskant didn’t
say a word, behaving like an utter gentleman and leaving the kitchen to
retrieve the wine as promised. She watched as his body rippled beneath his
tight black turtleneck, the muscles in his shoulders contorting and stretching
as walked from the room and vanished past the entranceway.
She sagged onto the counter and laid her head on her folded
arms, forcing herself to breathe through her nose rather than pant like a bitch
in heat. The fragrant aroma of chicken parmesan would have beckoned if her body
weren’t so damn hot and achy. Once upon a time she’d yearned for this kind of
sexual tension. However, back then the man she’d wanted it from hadn’t
frightened her or made her entire body burn. Whereas Martin had been quiet,
intellectual and nonthreatening, Diskant was brash, masculine and powerful.
They were polar opposites and, for a split second, she wondered how in the holy
hell she’d ever been attracted to her one-time fiancé in the first place.
While mentally stimulating, Martin had never been able to
satisfy her sexually. The more she’d tried to initiate play in the bedroom, the
more he’d rebelled against the notion. He was a missionary man through and
through, which was why she’d finally ended their engagement altogether. Being
in control of her life, her brother’s screw-ups, and dealing with the
increasing annoyances of the Villati drained her. She needed one place she
could relinquish the weight of responsibility, allowing her to simply be for a while.
Diskant would give her that. There was no way he would allow
her to boss him around or dictate how they wrangled sexually in the bedroom.
What would it be like to have him tell her what to do? To grant him the
authority to take his pleasure as he pleased and, in turn, nourish her own? As
a shifter, he would be disease free and safe. What would it be like to have a
night of sex without any worries or repercussions?
Her already drenched panties got another thorough dousing at
the prospect.
Damn, damn, damn!
Stop it already and pull it together. Focus on the food,
the room, the atmosphere. Think about anything but Diskant’s body, mouth and
the impressive size of his cock…
“Just wonderful,” she muttered. “I’m officially on the
ballot for slut of the year.”
She ripped the Styrofoam containers from the paper bag in
careless jerks and tugs. Diskant would be back at any moment and at this rate
she wouldn’t have to beg him to do squat. His impeccable sense of smell would
tell him all he needed to know the minute he took a seat at the table, poured
the wine and smelled the air.
By the time he returned she’d managed to calm down, place
the now-prepared dishes on the table and take her own seat. She intentionally
put as much space between them as possible, situating her plate on the other
side of the circular table. Sometimes the only thing a woman could do was play
defense and hope for the best. If he sat next to her she’d be too tempted to
hop up on the wooden surface, drop trou and ask him if he wanted dessert before
his meal.
A
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