Page 31 of Her Purr-fect Christmas Mate

But his body was drowning, overwhelmed by the wet heat of her mouth, the lap of her tongue on his shaft, the suction of her lips around him as she gave his length a curiously assessing look and took him deeper. The caressing current around him was heading for a waterfall, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Peony—”

“Hmm?”

Oh god. She learned this from books?

“You can learn a lot from books.” She lifted her gaze to meet his shocked eyes. Then, mouth full—oh fuck, fuck,fuck—added: *Wait. You didn’t say that out loud, did you?*

He could reply telepathically. But if he did, it would all be over. The brush of her mind against his was bad enough; if he twined his thoughts with hers, he wouldn’t be able to last. And he never wanted this to end.

She hummed laughter against his cock and withdrew. “Books can be very educational. I’m glad all my hours studying have turned out so useful.”

He stared at her, utterly undone by this incredible, confusing woman who treated his body like a puzzle to solve. A puzzle shewantedto solve.

She smiled and ran her tongue long and slow down the bottom of his shaft. His whole body clenched.

He’d been desired before. It usually started when people found out about his money, and ended when they found out about his personality. But he’d never had anything like this. Likeher.She was chasing his orgasm not to ingratiate herself with him but because figuring out what brought him to the edge gave her a sense of implacable satisfaction. A psychic purr that radiated from her like the rays of the sun.

He was about to come harder than ever before in his life, and his head was spinning at the thought that it was more aboutherthan it was about him.

Why shouldn’t it be? She’s my mate. Everything I do should be about her.

He was so close. “Wait,” he forced out, his hand flexing a half-inch from Peony’s face. “Stop.”

She stopped. Her gaze flicked from his face, to his hand, and back to his face. A silent question thrummed along the connection between them, and his knees almost gave way.

God, he wanted to touch her so much.

“Get on the bed,” he rasped out. “I want to finish inside you.”

“He speaks!” She rose, hands running hot and possessive over his shirt. “Youget on the bed.”

He could not think of any sensible rebuttal to that. He stumbled past her and, gathering the last strands of his dignity around him, sat.

She shoved him flat on his back and straddled him.

“Oh yes,” she gasped, pinning him to the mattress like a nymph from some ancient myth—a creature of lust and magic and wonder, who might save him or might kill him. She was slick and hot against him, and he bucked his hips, thoughts disintegrating in the face of his mate’s desire. “Thisis what I wanted. Exactly this.”

He’d been wrong about her psychic powers being lessened in this form. Her emotions blazed like the stars. Joy. Giddy glee. And lust so fierce and hot it shocked the breath from him.

She lowered herself onto him with excruciating care. Her eyes never left his. Whatever she saw in his face made her purr with satisfaction. He could imagine her sharpening her claws on the sheets either side of his head. Instead she buried her hands in his hair and kissed him, the way he’d thought she would earlier, except now she tasted of him and he was inside her, lost in how hot and tight and wet she was as she eased herself down to his hilt and moved above him like an angel of sin.

“Go on,” she whispered, drawing back enough to stare down into his eyes. *Let go.*

He came so hard he saw stars. Then her hands were on his shoulders, fingers digging in. The thought lurched through his mind—he should touch her, worship her body, make sure he was reciprocating the pleasure she was so joyously and insistently giving him—but his body wouldn’t obey. Even as pleasure crashed through him, the paralysis held him in its grip.

Her body clamped tight as a fist, milking every last drop from him, and she cried out with a gasping moan.

She collapsed on top of him, sweaty and boneless in the wake of an orgasm that had torn through her like a storm. When she lifted her head at last, her gold-brown eyes seeking his, she looked dazed. “Better,” she breathed. When he frowned, she laughed. “Exactly what I wanted. Even better than what I imagined.”

It wasn’t until much later that night, as she lay sleeping beside him and he lay stiffly awake, staring at the ceiling, that he could finally admit to himself why her words filled his stomach with ice.

She’d enjoyed herself. Buthehad had nothing to do with it. She’d taken pleasure in his body, and he would offer it to her as often as she wanted it—but that pleasure hadn’t been a fair transaction. Not when he’d done nothing to bring her to her own climax.

He closed his eyes, and that was worse, without even the blank expanse of the ceiling to distract him from the ice filling his veins.

What if he couldn’t? What if his mate could bring him and herself to such heights of pleasure that it left him undone—and he couldn’t do the same for her?

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