“You’re sure?”
He pressed his lips against hers. Lips so different from his own; softer, as soft as rose petals, fuller, holding him in thrall at that very first brush. He pulled back, marveling, and then he went in again…marveled anew at the decadence of her…then again, and this time, moaning, she opened for him.
Her tongue rolled against his, bringing with it the tastes of summer: berries dipped in cream, newly blooming roses and sultry midnights.
As focused on her as he was, he was able to follow her lead. When her tongue thrust, he knew to meet it. When her tongue retreated, he knew to chase it. He relished every new experience, growling his desire for more.
Her fingers slicked through his hair, decadent sensations dancing over his scalp, tickling skin that had never before been touched by another’s hands. “I don’t know about you but I like this,” she breathed, sounding surprised.
“Yes.” His blood had been icy for so long, with only the occasional flash of heat to prevent him from freezing. Heat he’d only felt with her. Now that blood was molten, scorching through his veins, warming him up. Sweat beaded on his brow, between his shoulder blades, and trickled down his stomach.
Even his breath burned him, singeing his lungs and scraping at his throat. There was only one cure for the fever, and he instinctively knew what it was. He had to be closer to her, had to touch all of her. Had to have all of her.
“Up.” A command.
When she failed to immediately obey, Zacharel cupped her bottom and lifted her, forcing her to straddle him, to settle her weight against him. And oh, sweet heavens, yes, that was exactly what he’d needed. Pleasure rocketed through him, a beautiful sort of torture.
She moaned into his mouth, her nails sinking into his scalp, as if to hold him in place. As if she worried he would try to get away. Never would he do such a thing. He was lost, tied only to the woman in his lap and glad for it. Except…
Except the new position was no longer the blessing he’d thought.
“Annabelle.” He hurt and needed some kind of relief.
“Zacharel.”
Hearing his name on her lips, uttered so breathlessly, filled him with a sense of possession. Mine. “Do…more,” he pleaded.
“Okay. All right. Yes.”
But she didn’t, and he had to flatten his hands on her hips to stop himself from trying to caress her everywhere all at once.
“What kind of more do you want?” she whispered.
“Whatever you will give.”
“I don’t…maybe…rock into me.”
Rock into…yes. As they kissed and kissed and kissed, he arched against her. Forward, back, seeking, retreating. Every point of contact wrung a groan from her and a growl from him. The pleasure blurred with pain, as unbearable as it was necessary.
How had he gone without this for so long? How had he resisted this? No wonder so many humans were willing to war with their brethren, just to have or even save the one they lusted after. This sense of connection…Zacharel had never before experienced its like. He wasn’t just Zacharel, he was Annabelle’s man and glad for it.
“Zacharel?”
Her breasts smashed against his chest, causing a brand-new ache. He had to feel her against him, skin to skin, no barriers. He released her long enough to rip his robe down the middle and jerk his arms free of the fabric, allowing what was left to mend itself and tighten around his waist. Next he ripped the cotton of Annabelle’s top, causing it to gape open and her to inhale sharply.
He had ripped her bra, too, and she was beautiful. Oh, was she beautiful. He was shaking as he cupped her breasts, marveling that they could be so heavy and yet so soft. Must…taste…
“Wait,” he thought he heard her say.
No. No waiting. He would have her now.