Blood Kiss - Ward J. R. (чтение книг .txt) 📗

Nope.

With a vicious jerking motion, he ripped one side and then the other—and her panties were no more.

And then the sensations were slick and hot, nothing separating his lips and his tongue and her sex.

Thanks to what they had done the night before, she knew what was coming, so when the orgasm hit she gave herself up to it, welcoming the pumping pleasure, jerking up against the mattress, knocking the pillows off to the floor.

When she finally came back from the soaring, shimmering heights of the release, she saw him rising up between her legs.

“Take me,” she ordered him. “Do it.”

Grabbing hold of her muscle shirt, she ripped it off over her head so that she lay naked and stretched out in front of his enormous body, his incredible erection, his barely leashed power. And yet he hesitated, even though the hunger on his face made him look like a demon.

“Craeg…” Reaching up to her breasts, she caressed herself and arched up again, the burn already back in her sex, the desperation, the sweet suffocation returning tenfold.

All he did was sit back on his heels, put his hands on his thighs, and bow his head.

“Craeg?”

“No…” he groaned. “I can’t.”

“What…?”

“I’m not going to have sex with you.”

Wait, huh? she thought.

When he didn’t say anything else, she propped herself up on her elbows and pulled her shirt over to cover her breasts. “Why not?”

“It’s … not going to happen.”

“What’s wrong? What did I do?”

“Oh, fuck, it’s … no, you’re too good, you’re…”

“Craeg, you gotta stop that.”

Enough, she thought, reaching out to him. As she ran her hands up his arms, she felt his corded muscles, knew the struggle he was forcing himself into.

“Take this off,” she said, tugging at the bottom of his shirt.

She expected him to fight with her. He didn’t. His arms went lax and he let her remove the undershirt, and then … God, he was beautiful, his smooth, hairless skin stretched over such power—and when she went to run her hands over his flesh, he let her, his head falling back, his neck and shoulder muscles straining.

And then he shocked her.

“Take my vein,” he said in a rough voice. “If I can’t have you … take from me…”

Just like with the oral sex, it happened oh, so fast, her fangs descending, her eyes locking on his jugular with a dead-serious that she’d never felt before.

With a hiss, she lunged up and struck, sinking deep, nailing him with a greed that he submitted to completely. Hauling him to the side, she laid him out beneath her and straddled his abdomen as if he were her prey, sucking at him, his taste roaring its way down to her gut, filling her up from the inside out in a way that food and rest could not do.

She was dimly aware of him stretching his arms out and gripping the headboard, bending his torso toward her, moaning as his hips pumped and thighs jerked. He was orgasming and then so was she and everything got super-crazy, super-quick, as she moved her pelvis and felt that hard ridge right where she wanted it.

But when she tried to get to his erection, when she attempted to take his pants off, he held her hands away and kept them in an iron grip. And when she protested, when she fought him, the world spun and she was on her back again.

Blood ran down his neck and his chest from where she’d penetrated him, but he didn’t care.

His hands went to the front of his hips and he sprang his arousal by ripping the fly of the loose pants in half.

Paradise’s eyes rolled in her head, but she forced them to focus because she wanted to see him.

Wrapping his big hand around his thick shaft, he began to stroke himself. He didn’t watch what he was doing; his eyes were on hers. And in spite of the heat between them, there was something intrinsically remote about his expression.

He wasn’t going to take her, she thought.

Except her confusion and disappointment got shelved as he arched up and started to orgasm all over her sex.

He might not be willing to take her body fully.

But he was marking her for all he was worth.

Spreading her legs wide, she exposed herself completely and let him torture himself on a rack of his own doing, his releases covering her core, hitting her in hot bursts that stroked her.

She might have been a virgin … but she knew down to her soul that this was a battle he was going to lose.

Maybe not tonight, but soon, he was going to crack and make love to her.

And she couldn’t wait.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Two nights later, Butch finally got free to take his shellan to a sex club.

Yeah, like he’d ever thought of a date night like this one?

As he waited for her in the mansion’s foyer, he paced around and felt like he was pulling a Halloween in the dumb-ass getup he had on. The black leathers were fine; the black muscle shirt was also okay. The rest of the shit was …

What the fuck was he wearing?

Pulling the long black coat out in a fan, he got a whole lot of black leather, fur, and silk. The thing was huge, and yet it barely brushed the ground because he was wearing a pair of lifts that made him taller than Wrath.

New Rocks?

He’d borrowed them from Axe, and they buckled up from the toes to just under his knees. Also weighed fifty pounds, but were surprisingly stable and comfortable.

And then there was the mask. The thing was a front plate made of thin metal and plastic, and when he strapped it on and applied proper adhesive, it covered his entire face with a gray-white-and-black skeletal horror that moved when he spoke.

Yup, it was mask night down at the Poke ’n’ Play, and far be it from him not to fit in with the crowd.

He took out his phone and checked the time. Marissa had come over from the Pit to hang out with the girls to get ready—and the two of them were going to head to the club together while Axe was driven out separately from the training center.

Clomping around the mosaic apple tree, he was amazed at how okay he’d become with taking Marissa with him on this sojourn into the dark and the seedy. After that talk he and his shellan had had, though, it was like something had unlocked in him, some twisted, painful muscle spasm of his internal wiring had loosened and uncoiled, allowing him to breathe more easily.

He’d hated the rough spot they’d found themselves in. He fucking loved the new vista, though.

As if on cue, he sensed his mate at the top of the grand staircase. Turning, Butch looked up and—

Enagbu jioa kdf ahtaj; fjjkd powkl.

Or something to that effect.

Gone was his beautiful princess in the designer clothes. In her place was … a freaky-deaky erotic sexpot wearing shrink-wrapped black latex from her mile-high stilettos all the way up and over her head. The only thing that marked her identity? The long blond ponytail that came out of a hole in the top of the full-body/facial suit, those golden waves swinging free.

And then there was her mask.

It was like an industrial gas mask, with round black disks for eyes and a nose and mouthpiece that showed no part of her skin because there was a seal around the latex that covered her face. Made of black glass and burnished gray metal, it was an ugly piece of absolute art.

As she came down at him, his cock punched out an erection so quickly, he actually had to look to make sure the fly of his leathers was still intact.

Her body was … absolutely, fucking insane, the light stroking down the banging curves of her breasts, throwing shadows around her tight waist, highlighting her hips and thighs.

When she was finally standing in front of him, she did a slow little turn, and holy fucking shit, the mechanized sound of her breathing made his balls tighten. Well, that and her ass. Dear God in heaven above, her—