Oh God, she loved the feel of him. She wanted to wrap him around her like a blanket and hold on to his warmth forever. It seared into her palms as his kiss seeped into her soul and left her quivering with the sensations building inside her.
How she had ached over the months, and refused to admit it. How she had worried, fought with herself, and fought the need that flowed between them, even before she had known about the mating heat. He was a part of her. And he had been a part of her since the moment his black eyes had met hers when she had been no more than sixteen.
Before they touched. Before that first kiss. Before the anger and the fear and the realization of the world she was entering when she entered Del-Rey’s arms.
“I need to f**k you,” he growled as his lips lifted from hers and traveled to her jaw, her neck. “I need to be inside you, Anya. So deep, so tight that there is no you, no me. Just this.”
His fingers flipped over the closure of her pants, pulled the zipper loose. “I sat in that f**king dark room smelling your need for me and thought I’d burn out of control before I managed to touch you. Imagining how wet you were. You’ve always been wet for me, Anya. Always. Before the heat, before you were even old enough for me to touch, you’ve been wet for me.”
A ragged cry left her lips as his finger brushed the saturated curls between her thighs.
“So wet your pu**y clings to the silk of your panties.” He nipped her jaw, then licked the little wound. “Your juices cling to my tongue the same way. Loving my touch. You love my touch, Anya.”
“I love your touch,” she gasped, her hips lifting into his palm as he covered it, cupped it. “Oh God, Del-Rey, I’ve always loved your touch.”
“I love your touch,” he growled. “I ache for it, dream of it. I wake drenched in sweat yet freezing from the need of your warmth.”
Two fingers curled, parted the swollen folds between her thighs and pressed, slowly, almost teasingly, into the aching depths of her body.
It was so good. So brutally good Anya jerked against him, his name a gasp on her lips as she felt her internal muscles clenching around his fingers. The heated warmth of her juices flowed around his fingers, slickening them, easing his way as he thrust them slowly inside her.
“I ached for this,” he whispered at her ear, then slid his teeth down her neck. “The feel of you, the taste of you. Your sweet pu**y opening for my cock, gripping me and pulling me in as your arms and your kiss hold me closer to you. I would have died for just one more night in your arms, my coya.”
“Don’t die,” she moaned. “Just touch me, Del-Rey. Don’t stop touching me.”
Self-control wasn’t important here, in his arms. There was no need to fight for lucidity. He could think for both of them here, because Anya knew she didn’t have a hope of saving a single thought in her head.
She arched her neck as he dragged the loose neckline of her sweater to the side, found the mark he had left on her neck and then, amazingly, he lapped at it. His tongue licked with slow, sensual strokes over the wound that had become so incredibly sensitive to the lightest stroke that she felt her vagina flutter, then convulse around his fingers.
This shouldn’t be possible. It shouldn’t be so sensual, so erotic that she wanted nothing more than to be stripped bare before him and feel him stroking over every inch of her flesh.
“I don’t know how to handle this.” She arched, shuddered in his arms. “I don’t know how to think, Del-Rey.”
“Don’t think, sweetheart,” he groaned against the mark he had left on her, before kissing it gently. “Just feel. Feel me. This is all you need to do. I’ll take care of everything else.”
She had to trust him, because she couldn’t control this. She didn’t want to fight it, not anymore. She didn’t want the hormone treatments blocking so much as a single sensation or a second of the need. She wanted it all. He had accepted it all, suffered for it, given her the freedom and the time she had needed to realize what she wanted, what she ached for. She could do nothing but let her senses fly and give herself into the keeping of the man she had chosen years before as her own.
She arched into the thrust of his fingers, her cries shattering the space around her as she fought not to beg for him to take her now, at this second.
They couldn’t be far from Base. He would have to stop. It couldn’t last much longer.
“God, you make me lose my head.” He breathed out roughly, his head lifted despite her protests, his gaze narrowed on the window. “Come, sweet.” His hand slid slowly from her saturated flesh.
“Not yet,” she whimpered. “Don’t stop yet.”
“Just for a bit.” His lips lowered to hers, brushed against them, and he was kissing her again, slowly, deeply. His tongue pushed against hers, encouraging her to suckle at it as he fixed her pants, her sweater.
He pulled her hands from his flesh, holding them above her head with one of his as the other smoothed down her side, gripped her hip.
When he lifted his head, she forced her eyes to open, to stare back at him.
“When you need me, come to me, Anya. No matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing. Suffer in silence again, and I’ll make certain you understand clearly that it will not be permitted.”
Her lips parted in surprise at the dominant, dominating tone of his voice.
“Getting awful bossy, aren’t you, Coyote man?” She had to curl her fingers against the seat to keep from dragging him to her once again.
“I’m weak where you’re concerned, Mate,” he told her gently, but the tone didn’t disguise the pure power beneath it. “But don’t tempt me in matters of your safety or where your well-being is concerned. Be stubborn, I can deal with that. Take charge in the areas that are your own, that I can handle. Argue with me when you need to, yell at me if you must. But don’t endanger yourself or allow something I can fix to harm you. That I won’t tolerate.”