Page 102 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Fuck.

This woman.

Her cheeks were pink, her lips parted. Her hair was a wild cascade of auburn curls, studded not with diamonds but with twigs and grass and an oak leaf.

Perfect.

“You caught me,” she said, and he could hear all the threads of wanting and need in her voice. The widening of her pupils.

He leaned down to kiss her softly, couldn’t help himself, even though that wasn’t the game. The kiss turned deeper, a brush of lips to the stroking of tongues. “Still want this?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Prove it,” he said, using her own words. “Open your legs for me, Sorcha.”

Her knees parted with gratifying speed.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You can do better than that.”

She shifted, thighs falling open. He slid one leg between hers, teasing, applying just enough pressure to her quim to feel the warmth of her, to hear the moan building in her throat. She responded by wrapping her legs around his hips and pressing harder against him until he thrust once, with a soft snarl.

He yanked off his plaid, his balls so tight his spine felt like it was on fire. He dragged the head of his cock between her warm, wet folds, and they were like silk. “Another taste. Just one more taste.”

She closed her fingers around him, pinning him in place. “If you don’t let me touch you, Aidan Carnahan, I swear to the moon…”

He huffed a laugh, amazed that she could find a way to wind such threads of simple joy into the fiery hunger, the feral need to consume her and be consumed by her. The way his wolf needed the moon and the forest and her. Just her. “So impatient.”

“I’ve been exceedingly patient, actually. So take me, Aidan. Or I’ll take you.”

“Promise?”

“Yes,” she said, breaking into a moan when he slid deep into her warmth, slowly, inch by torturous inch. “Aidan.”

“Finally,” he said against her damp throat. “Fucking finally.”

He continued to thrust, long and hard and deep, drinking in her tiny whimpers, her soft moans. He could have feasted on them, as he wanted to feast on her. She was so tight and hot and welcoming and he couldn’t get enough. Would never get enough.

But he was damned if he came before he made her come again.

“One more for me,” he said, rolling her over so that she straddled him. A small part of him was relieved that she could more easily run away in his position.

She lowered herself onto his cock, fingers tightening in his chest hair. He bucked his hips once and she moaned, riding him harder, faster. He reached up to circle her bud, slick with sweat and arousal, a taut berry he wanted to suck into his mouth. He told her as much, rubbing her until she arched back with a keening moan that made him thrust up into her. He kept a relentless pace, deep and slow, gripping her hips as her intimate muscles squeezed him. He thrust until there was only the silky, fluttering heat of her, her ragged breaths in his ear when she half collapsed over him, and her taunts that he couldn’t possibly find more pleasure than she had.

He came so hard he tasted moonlight and fire and Sorcha.

His wolf howled inside his chest.

His eyes went molten but he didn’t hide them, knew they did not frighten her. Indeed, it only made her wrap her thighs tighter around him, her little nails scratching down his chest. He hoped she left a mark.

It was perfect. She was perfect.

“I am not.” She grinned, and he realized he had spoken out loud. “But I’ll remind you that you said that the next time I want to pet a kelpie.”

He growled softly in her ear and she shivered, nipples pebbling harder against his chest. “We agreed you wouldn’t do that again.” Watching her risk herself had made him queasy. His wolf would have turned on him for just standing there if it could have.

“I agreed to no such thing,” she scoffed. “As if I ever would.”

“I suppose I shall just have to keep you busy.”