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“You lead the way, Sylas.”
He groans, then places his face in the lee of my neck and inhales with gusto. Sometimes he seems so human, but not now. What he just did, scenting me, was pure animal lust.
“You’re perfect, Calliope Quinn. So fucking perfect.”
Breathing against my neck, he nuzzles that sensitive spot below my ear until he gives me a whole-body shiver. I’m still crushed against him, my nipples pressing against his chest.
Sliding his fingers through my hair, he captures me—as though I’d try to get away—and brushes his soft lips against mine. We’ve kissed over the last month, little sweet good-morning or goodnight kisses. They were little placeholders, pale reminders of what we had that night in the original Quonset. This? This kiss is everything I’ve been dreaming of. It’s brimming with the full extent of both his affection and his lust.
Sylas' tongue darts out to taste my lower lip, and I eagerly open up to him. Our tongues tangle as he deepens the kiss, his warmth enveloping me in a wave of pure desire. Insistent palms roam my back, following the curve of my spine before his fingers splay wide on the small of my back, tugging me even closer. His erection is rock hard, pressing against me in lust.
His wild half-man smell, a mix of earth and musk and something uniquely him, wraps around us. The feral smell ratchets my arousal. His rough stubble scrapes my tender skin, sending shivers down my spine.
Tilting my head back with one hand while the other slides down towards my ass, he squeezes it possessively, making me moan into his mouth. I arch into his touch, wordlessly asking for more.
My fingers lace through his hair and tangle in the silky strands as he sucks on my bottom lip before delving his tongue inside once more. When I clutch the base of his antlers, he sucks in a breath between his teeth. If I didn’t know better, it would sound like he’s in pain, but the way his eyes almost roll back into his head, my touch sparked pleasure.
“You like that.” I surround the base of his antlers and gently move my hands up and down.
“Fuck!”
Erogenous zones. Hidden in plain sight. I absently wonder if I should use this knowledge for good or evil. I palm them for a moment more before he shakes me off with a murmured, “Keep doing that and I’ll come too soon.”
His statement is so raw, so sexy, my arousal coils tighter, warmer.
I can’t restrain myself anymore as I slip one hand between us and try to slide it beneath the waistband of his pants.
He settles my bottom onto the kitchen bar, grips my wrists in both his hands, and scolds, “I should have known you’d be naughty. I thought you put me in charge.” Then he nibbles and scrapes his teeth against the center of my palm. “For your disobedience, you have to forfeit one item of clothing.” He pulls off my shoes and socks before saying, “You pick.”
“Not fair! You just removed four items without them even counting!”
“Now you have to forfeit two items. You earned a penalty for griping.”
I’m the most competitive person I know, but I quit complaining because I realize that losing this battle of wills with him will actually be a win for me.
“Pick. Cally. Two items.”
When I move to unbutton my shirt, he gently bats my hands away and scolds, “I said pick, not take it off. That reward is for me.”
Who is this male, and what has he done with Sylas? This couldn’t be the same patient person who proposed a one-month moratorium on sex, could it?
His tail is short and bushy and seldom wags, unlike Tater, who must know he’s persona non grata because he’s curled into a ball sleeping on the other side of the room. Sylas’s tail is moving now. Not a wag, exactly, but it’s thumping up and down and most certainly must be a tell that he’s aroused, although I don’t need to see his tail move in order to know that.
Slowly, he undoes each button on my shirt. Instead of groping me in the process, his long, elegant fingers make precise movements. They studiously avoid touching anything but the little pearl-colored buttons.
Still taking his time, he places his palms on either side of my throat and slides them lower until he catches the fabric on the heels of his hands and then sweeps outward until the shirt crests over my shoulders and spills to the floor.
He performs the entire maneuver so slowly that I have a front-row seat watching the heat burst in his gaze. His umber orbs darken as he looks at me and takes me in with a gasp of pleasure.
“I was in rut before, Cally. I must have been crazed, because if I was in my right mind, I would have taken my time to enjoy the show. Now, tell me. What should I remove next?”
“You choose.”
He freezes for a minute as he appears to give deep thought to his next move. When he realizes how long he’s been paralyzed, he flashes me a lazy smile and explains, “I guess sex is like chess. I’m planning my next ten moves.”
While I’m chuckling, he assaults my mouth, as though he wants to capture my laughter and swallow it down. We kiss for a moment. It’s hot and passionate and he gives no quarter. His tongue invades my mouth, tastes me, explores, then he pulls back to nip my lower lip and moan with the joy of tasting me, kissing me, owning me.
Was I really so engrossed in that incendiary kiss that I didn’t notice his hands surrounding me and undoing my bra? After he slides the straps off my shoulders, then releases the scrap of fabric to fall to the floor, he steps back to look at me. We both watch as my tawny nipples unfurl due to what? Is it the cool air or his ardent inspection?
