Page 34 of Reptile Dysfunction
Her laugh turns into a gasp as I press kisses along her collarbone, my hands sliding behind her to unclasp her bra. The lace falls away, revealing breasts that make my cock twitch—lush handfuls tipped with dusky rose nipples already tightening in the cool air.
“Beautiful,” I murmur against her skin. My snakes sway in agreement, creating a hypnotic pattern above us. Sterlingreluctantly unwinds from her throat, joining the others in their appreciative dance.
I take my time, mapping her body with lips and tongue, discovering what makes her breath catch and what draws those little whimpers from her throat. When I finally suck a nipple into my mouth, her back arches like a bow.
“Thad.” Her fingers grip my neck, pulling me close. “God, your mouth—”
I lavish attention on first one breast, then the other, alternating between gentle suction and the scrape of teeth that makes her hips shift restlessly. My hands span her waist, thumbs tracing the curve of her ribs, learning the geography of her.
Her skin flushes pink wherever I touch, a visible map of desire that feeds my own growing need. Between us, my snakes create a curtain of sinuous muscle, some brushing against her arms and shoulders in feather-light caresses, others swaying in patterns that mirror my mounting arousal.
When my hands find the waistband of her pants, her hips lift in silent permission. The fabric slides away easily, leaving her in black lace panties that match her discarded bra. The scent of her arousal hits me like a physical force, making my cock strain painfully against denim.
“You’re overdressed,” she observes, tugging at my belt loop.
“Enjoying the view,” I counter, but I stand to remove my jeans.
After kicking the jeans aside, I’m left only in boxer briefs that do nothing to hide my arousal.
Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of me, and I can’t help the primal satisfaction that flares through me. I’m larger than most human males—in height, build, andallproportions. But the look in her eyes holds only anticipation, not apprehension.
“I think we can work something out,” she says, reaching for me.
When her fingers wrap around me through the thin cotton, my hips jerk involuntarily, and I release a hiss of pleasure as I throw my head back. Every snake on my head responds, some coiling tighter while others stretch in desire.
“Sensitive,” she echoes my earlier observation, a smile playing at her lips as she traces my considerable length. At first, I stifle my groan, then decide I have nothing to hide from this woman who is so generous with her inner thoughts.
I make a guttural moan of appreciation, making no effort to conceal the leaking wet spot on my briefs. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me, woman.”
I capture her wrist again, this time to save my rapidly deteriorating self-control. “And if you keep that up, this will be over embarrassingly quickly.”
She laughs, the sound sliding over me like warm honey. “Then perhaps we should try a different approach.” She shifts under me, her cue for me to move. “Lie down. Let me do the work.”
The suggestion makes sense given my injury, but something in her tone—commanding yet caring—sends heat coursing through me. I obey.
She stands, sliding her panties down long legs in a move that makes my mouth go dry. Then she’s straddling me, looking at me like a starving woman looks at a banquet.
The sight nearly undoes me—Sloane Whitaker, the beautiful, outspoken, fearless female, is naked and wanting above me. Her honey-blonde hair falls around her shoulders, and her eyes hold a hunger that matches my own.
“You’re staring,” she says, a hint of vulnerability in her voice.
“Because you’re stunning.” I run my hands up her thighs, feeling the muscles there, strong from Pilates, trembling slightly with desire. “Every inch of you.”
She leans down to kiss me, her breasts brushing against my chest in a way that makes us both gasp. My hands find her hips, guiding her against me in a slow, torturous rhythm that has us both breathing harder. The friction is exquisite—her heat against my hardness, separated only by the thin fabric of my boxers.
My snakes create a canopy around us, several brushing against her shoulders and back in gentle caresses. When one traces the curve of her spine, she shivers.
“They’re as eager as their owner,” she observes, pressing a kiss to my jaw.
“They have excellent taste.” I slide one hand between us, finding her slick and ready. When the heel of my hand brushes against her most sensitive spot, her eyes flutter closed, and the sight is more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.
I take my time learning her body, discovering exactly how she likes to be touched—the pressure, the rhythm, the patterns that make her breath catch. When I slide one finger inside her, then another, she rocks against my hand, seeking more.
“Thad,” she gasps, her hips moving in counterpoint to my touch. “I need—”
“Tell me,” I encourage, circling my thumb on her pleasure center. “Tell me what you need.”
“You,” she says simply, reaching to free me from my boxers. “All of you.”
