Page 107 of Gemini Hunted
My own need is indeed straining. My inner dragon (very male at the moment) is coiling under my skin like a cobra. Of course, sometimes Idolike to watch.
But that won’t be nearly enough to satisfy.
Not this time.
I slip out of my uniform blazer and let it drop. While the demon drinks in every move, I pop my Academy cufflinks, one by one. Leisurely, button by button, I open my crisp French shirt to expose my slim torso, pale in the shadows, and watch his eyes ignite.
“Hells’ bells,” he scrapes out. “You’re a tease. I fucking knew it.”
“Well, naturally.” I saunter up behind Zara and slip into place between the demon’s spread knees to purr in her ear. “Zara, darling, you’re wearing far too many clothes. Take everything off,do.Quickly. Or I’ll do it for you… my way.”
I punctuate my polite request by sliding the pocketknife from my trousers and thumbing it open with asnick!
My girl’s teal head snaps up from the demon’s neck. Her startled face turns toward me. “Oh, no you don’t, Goblin King. No knives! I’m down to my last pair of panties. No knives till we get back to thedomus.”
I admire the wicked edge of my blade. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Zara’s half-laughing and sultry with arousal, eyes glowing periwinkle like pinwheels, mouth swollen and breathless with kisses. I can’t resist the urge to swoop down and claim one for myself. Not one of my swift snakebites that leaves her gasping, but a deep claiming kiss that plunders her hot silky depths to make her moan. She even tastes like peaches, her entire fertilebody priming her for mating, overlaid with a burnt taffy taste that’s new.
“Hmmm,” I breathe into her mouth. “Is that the taste of sex demon?”
“Mmm-hmm.” The minx’s tongue dances around mine. “You like?”
“Oh, I like.” Finally, I turn from my girl’s succulent mouth to findhis.
This demon I’ve more or less added to her harem.
I kiss him before he can “rizz me up,” to use his line, with all that infernal incubus charisma. I snake out a hand to circle his beefy throat, tighten my grip to choke him, and kiss him when he opens his mouth to protest.
His sleek blue beard is smooth as silk. His full lips are soft and sweet as Zara’s. He tastes like her too, like peaches drizzled with taffy. But the raw hunger that surges from his kiss is all potent male. His tongue meets mine in a slick lick that sends fire streaking through every synapse I possess.
I hiss in approval, tighten my grip on his throat, and deepen the kiss.
Just so he’ll know who’s directing this little production.
His hard hands, callused as a construction worker’s, push inside my open shirt and slide roughly over my ribs. Pressed against my front, Zara wiggles desperately to unbutton her blouse and slip out of it before I can slice it open with the knife I’m still holding, quite deliberately, where she can see the blade.
Of course, the threat of my knife would be far more effective if she didn’t already know, to the marrow of her bones, that I’m psychotically in love with her. As a result, Zara hasn’t been properly terrified of despicable me—her horrible alpha—in quite some time.
The price we pay for love.
Trapped between the three of us, buffeted by our writhing bodies, the Horn of Ceres pulses like a beating heart. It’s a pulse I can feel with every one of my warlock senses, a heartbeat I can hear thudding through my skin. Under my trousers, my engorged cock weeps with need.
All the while Mordred, the naughty boy, sucks on my tongue like it’s my dick. Still throttling his throat, I hum to encourage him and shift my knife to tease the waistband of Zara’s skirt.
“Don’t you dare. I mean it, you snake!” Indignant but still laughing, Zara pushes Mordred flat on his back (which breaks our kiss), nudges my menacing knife aside, and gives us all a moment to adjust.
With my strangling grip finally dislodged from his throat, Mordred seizes his moment to suck in a shaky breath.
Zara seizes her moment to reach under her skirt and slip demurely out of her panties.
I seize mine by unclasping her bra from behind with a casual flick.
Even though I reallydowant to use my knife.
That lacy scrap of lime-green lingerie flutters to the floor.
Mordred sprawls on his back, a moveable feast of bulging pecs and deltoids and abdominal six-pack sheened with sweat, wild blue hair flung over the stone beneath him. When his gaze devours our queen’s exposed breasts, his wicked eyes turn savage with hunger.
