Page 82 of Stags

“You’re snoring,” said his voice at her ear.

She shook herself, coming back to consciousness, embarrassed. “Sorry,” she said, and now she tried to move, to get out from beneath him.

But he wouldn’t let her. He was inside her still, and he wasn’t soft now. “Shh,” he said. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I fell asleep, too.”

“Oh,” she whispered.

He thrust into her, a long and languid movement. “I like waking up here,” he said and his voice was thick and relaxed and pleased.

“Me too,” she said in a small voice.

“Take me again?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Slow this time,” he told her, as he thrust again, another long and slippery movement of the huge column lodged in her body.

“All right,” she gasped.

He made a growling noise, deeply satisfied. He rested his forehead against her shoulder blades and dragged himself in and out of her.

She seized a pillow and pushed it down so that it was putting pressure on her, pressure at the front, so that her clit felt trapped between the pillow and the way his hard cock was battering her from the inside.

He accommodated the movement, making noises of approval. “That good for you?”

“Uh huh,” she breathed.

“Good. I want you to like it. I want you to like me.”

“I like you,” she gasped.

“I like you, too,” he said and licked her neck again.

And then he fucked her slow, dragging himself in and out of her, and the pillow pressed into her, and everything became warm and fuzzy and intense, a world of pinks and purples behind her eyes as her breath grew ragged and they undulated together.

She climbed to an exquisite plateau, and he kept prodding her, his breath growing labored as he worked himself in her. She hung there. It felt good, but she knew she was stuck here, that she couldn’t get any higher, any closer to a climax, that there simply wasn’t the right kind of stimulation in the right spot.

She didn’t care, though.

She wanted to be a wolf’s plaything and take whatever this purplish goodness it was that she could get.

“I could be close,” he said eventually. “But you’re not.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s your scent,” he groaned, licking her again. “What do you need?”

“I…” She tried to summon her ability to communicate but it was difficult, suspended out here in the plateau of goodness, where the world was nothing but the pillow and his cock and the fucking and everything.

“I could use my teeth?” He was darkly amused.

“Maybe,” she agreed.

But he didn’t. He pulled out of her, abrupt, harsh.

She mewed.

He rolled her over, spreading her thighs and he grinned down at her, his sharp teeth glinting. “Maybe you want to be eaten.” And then he put his mouth between her thighs and he used that tongue of histhere.

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