Jessica Andersen - Magic Unchained

“Yes,” she said. Yes to all of it: to having him, taking him and being taken. This mattered; the rest of the world didn’t, not now. She rose to her knees and reached for the studs of his shirt, nudging his hands away. “Let me.” She opened his shirt and trailed kisses along his center line as it was revealed, undid his cuffs and slid the material back to kiss his marks, because they were a part of him. Then she unfastened his belt and the placket of his pants, and tugged them down in a slippery slide of expensive material to bare the flesh beneath. The sight of him straining against the fabric of his boxers quickened her breath, gripping her with frantic desire.

His boxers were a quick yank and gone, his shaft hard and pulsing with the beat of his heart, his testicles a warm, yielding weight that she could trail kisses across while she stroked his thighs, his buttocks, the cleft between. He shuddered and slapped for a bedpost, clutching it as his legs and body went rigid. He caught her shoulder, tried to urge her up his body, but didn’t try very hard.

“Let me,” she whispered against his inner thighs, thrilling to the way he swayed against her, hissing out a breath as she moved higher to lick along his stomach, then kiss a sweet path up the underside of his thick, pulsing shaft. And where before she had been in awe of his power, now she was the one who felt powerful.

His breathing went ragged, his muscles corded where he gripped the bedpost, his hands viciously gentle as he touched the back of her head, her nape, fingers dragging along her skin as if he was reassuring himself that she was really there, that this wasn’t one of the figments he had used to keep himself sane down in the war zone.

He had thought of her, fought for her. Knowing it, and that he cared for her deeply in his own way, unlocked something inside her. Murmuring his name, she opened her mouth and took him deep. He jolted against her and groaned a short, earthy curse, then went still as she slid her lips around him, encompassing him, taking as much of him as she could.

His breathing hitched and fine tremors raced along his muscles. He wasn’t a mage right now, wasn’t a spy or a warrior; he was a man desperate for what she could give him. Not sparks now, but flames. Pleasure. Acceptance. Affection. And a hell of a blow job.

She worked him, laved him, gloried in the surge of his body and the slick heat his excitement generated in hers as she brought him up to the pinnacle and—

He grated her name as he pulled away and bore her back onto the bed, stripping away her nylons and panties as he came down atop her. One shoe clunked to the floor; the other he took off and winged at the light switch by the door, plunging the room into a warm darkness lit by a glow from the bathroom and the blaze of security lights outside.

The night wrapped them in an intimacy she didn’t trust, but then he covered her with his body and nothing mattered but the press of his weight, his hot breath on her skin, and his kisses. Oh, his kisses. Their lips caught and held; their tongues slid; their breathing shuddered and hitched. And through it all, she burned for him, throbbed for him, reveled in knowing he needed her as much as she needed him.

He got a hand between their bodies and touched her core, murmuring dark praise at her wetness. He worked her, caressed her until she felt slick and swollen. Pleasure shivered through her at each slide of his hand, and then again as he shifted against her, intertwining them in a full-body embrace that had his hard, swollen cock sliding between her thighs. She rode the pleasure, rocking her hips against him, finding the perfect combination of pressure and friction almost immediately, and rocketing herself to the quick, bright slap of an orgasm.

She cried out as it gripped her, consumed her, raced through her, and then passed on, leaving her body vibrating at a higher level of sensation, driving her onward rather than leaving her wrung out.

Sven reared up over her and his face caught the light. His eyes were fierce, his hair a wild corona, his face set in concentration. The sight of him sent new shivers racing through her like lightning. His bloodline wildness was there in the elegant arc of his body, the lethal grace of muscle and sinew. She wanted this, wanted him, but not in any civilized way.

Heart pounding, she levered herself up to kiss him, seeking his taste, his strength, the quickening of his breath, and the groan that rumbled deep in his chest. Then she turned beneath him, pressed her bottom up against his pelvis, and offered herself, not just to Sven the man, but to the mage as well, the Nightkeeper who embodied his bloodline more than any other.

His breath shuddered out of him on a harsh groan of, “Christ, Cara,” and he caught her waist hard, holding her there, pressed up against him as he throbbed. And then, with no more than a shift of his body, his hard shaft found the entrance to hers. “Holy Christ,” he hissed, and then he drove into her from behind.

Her lungs filled with a moan as he parted her, forged deep and deeper still. Her senses coalesced to the point of entry as her inner muscles clenched around him while he withdrew and surged into her again. His body was slick and strong as it arched over her. He surrounded her, filled her, kissed the back of her neck as he thrust into her again and again in a primal, atavistic rhythm that started fast and then went faster still.

The resting heat of the orgasm she’d just had snapped tight in an instant as her body said, Yes, this and more. She wanted to give more, take more, take all of him.

Widening her stance, so the outsides of her thighs slicked against the insides of his, she wrapped her arms around his braced forearms and arched her neck back to press her cheek to his jaw, feeling the heat of the two of them together.

“Cara,” he whispered, and it sounded like a prayer. Then he shifted his weight to one arm and freed the other to touch her breasts, her thighs, and the place where they were joined.

At the first brush of his fingers to her sensitized flesh she jumped against him. At the second, she leaned in and purred, arching up against him as he moved. Pleasure coiled anew, raw and unfettered, and she swayed and might have collapsed entirely had it not been for his strong arms holding her, caging her. She convulsed in the throes of a second orgasm, this one coming so much stronger than the first, overwhelming her.

“Ah, gods!” Sven gripped her and quickened his tempo, driving surer and deeper for three strokes, four, and then surging into her, and growling long and deep as he shuddered and cut loose.

He held himself rigid while a groan drained from him, ending in her name. They stayed like that for an endless-seeming moment. Then, breathing like he’d just run the entire proving grounds with a demon at his heels, he collapsed against her, bringing them both to the bed on their sides, still joined by the flesh that stayed hard within her, pulsing.

Wow, she thought. Oh, holy… wow. Or maybe she said it aloud; she wasn’t entirely sure, though he pressed his lips against the back of her neck as if in answer. But he too seemed to have lost the words.

They lay there, locked together and unspeaking, for a long time. Long enough for their breathing to level off and for them to separate. Long enough for the air to feel cold and him to tug up the comforter over them. And long enough for her to know, as she slipped into a light doze and then deeper, that things between them would never be the same.

Skywatch

Rabbit crouched over Myrinne’s body, holding a stained knife that dripped blood onto her lifeless face and open, staring eyes, knowing he was in a dream.

It wasn’t the same dream, though. It was day instead of night, and they were inside Sven’s coyote cave. But she was still dead; he was still standing over her, breathing heavily, his blood racing with a mix of grief and rage.