Claws & Crochet

Part 51

Content warning: More steam ahead!!! This whole chapter is spice. You've been warned.

ZOEY

This Gunner Apology is going better than I expected.

I love watching Warner writhe on the couch, tormented by the pleasure of my touch. Being in control in the bedroom—or in this case the living room—has always made my blood run hotter. That someone so strong and powerful would give himself up to me is a heady sensation.

There's a tantalizing heat building in my lower belly as I run my mouth along his length. Warner tastes salty, especially when I flick my tongue over the slit of him.

He jerks in response, a low groan filling the entirety of his apartment.

I think we're nearing the edge.

Which means it's time for me to get mine.

I let him pop out of my mouth, and his erection bobs against his stomach, hard and wanting.

Warner's eyes meet mine. Hungry. Pleading.

I stand, moving beside his head to comb my fingers through his hair, all the while admiring the masterpiece of lustful male I've created.

"Zoey," he whispers my name as if his begging confuses him. Warner knows I'm in charge, which means he has no idea what's coming next.

Or more likely who is coming next.

"Do you still want to lick me?"

"Yes." The word is ragged as his arms shoot out, strong hands gripping the back of my thighs to pull me closer.

I grin at his eagerness. "Take off my underwear."

His eyes get dark as he watches his own fingers pull down the lace, exposing me to him. Never have I had someone gaze at me with such intensity before. A girl could get high off this kind of attention.

When the fabric is on the floor, I fondle the silky strands of his hair again. "Do you want me to ride your face?"

Please say yes. I beg silently.

"More than anything," he growls. Now his palms cup my ass, encouraging me.

Bracing my hands on either side of his head on the armrest, I straddle his shoulders, my knees sinking into the cushions. Warner slides lower, until his breath tickles the curls at the center of me.

"Fuck, Zoey." His lips brush my sensitive skin as he curses, and I clutch at the smooth leather of the couch to keep myself steady. "You're perfect."

My command of the situation slips. Like I've stepped on the slick stones leading to dark water. The river snatches at my feet.

"I'm not."

Warner growls again, this time low and menacing. Then I feel a long stroke against my folds. Hot and wet. His tongue tortures me, giving back the pleasure I plied him with only a moment ago.

"You're perfect for me."

Before I can respond, Warner's lips find my clit. After that, I'm too busy moaning and drowning in ecstasy to overthink his declaration. All my muscles tighten, my body wanting to curl in on itself, looking for protection from the intense sensation of a werewolf's mouth on my pussy.

At some point my hands move from the couch to his head, my fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair. I must look wanton, clutching him to me as my hips rock against his mouth.

But Warner doesn't tap out, begging for a break. Instead, he kneads my ass and presses me closer. He fucks me with his tongue in between bouts of worshiping my clit.

The noises that come out of my throat rival those of an animal. The response is a hum deep in his throat that sounds happy. Not a big surprise that a werewolf might like driving a woman wild.

"Warner," I gasp. "I'm close."

His assault becomes more frenzied, and when the brush of teeth against my clit comes, I give in to the glorious pulsing of my orgasm. The tension in my muscles increases by ten-fold then snaps loose like a rubber band pulled past its limits. Some form of whispered scream forces out of my throat.

Warner laps at me, clearly enjoying the taste of my wetness. I can barely keep upright and appreciate it when he slides my hips down over his chin and down his chest, until I can collapse on top of him without worrying about suffocating him with my thighs.

We both pant; and with the movement of his chest, I feel the brush of his hard length against my ass.

Which means I still have work to do. And hell, am I looking forward to it.

"Do you have condoms?" My question is muffled because I've started nuzzling the hair on his chest. Who knew I'd like my man with some fuzz?

"I think so. In my bedside table."

"Sounds like we need to relocate."

That's all the instruction Warner requires. He stands, with me clutched against him, and strides toward a back room. After tossing me onto a wonderfully cushy bed, Warner flips on the light and stares down at me.

I rise up to my knees and open my arms, beckoning him closer. He obeys, and for a few minutes we let our heat and passion spill into a kiss. At some point, he unclasps the hooks of my bra, letting the material drop to the floor. Then nothing is between us.

My nerve endings tingle as Warner's body presses flush against mine, and I want to rub myself all over him. More than that, I want to feel connected to him. Have him inside me.

"Condom." I command when I break off our kiss. He leans over to open a drawer in his bedside table and pulls out one of those tiny three-packs found in any gas station. I pluck it out of his hand and check the expiration date hasn't passed before tearing the container open.

Once the latex is free, I shuffle back on the bed.

"Lie down. I'm going to put this on you."

Warner reclines on the mattress, his moves smooth as a predator's. His eyes stay trained on my hands, arm wrapping around my waist as if to make sure I won't run on him.

I might enjoy him hunting me down.

The rubber isn't hard to slide on with him standing at attention. Once he's properly equipped, I mount his hips.

"Do you want to be inside me?" I ask, voice husky.

Warner's response is a tense nod and a tight grip on my hips. Still, he doesn't try to direct me. The werewolf follows my lead, and I reward him for it with another searing kiss.

Reaching between us, I wrap my hand around him, loving the heat that seeps through the latex. Warner will never let me be cold. It's impossible for him.

Still, I shiver as I sink onto him, but purely from pleasure.

"Zoey," Warner groans my name, and I watch with glee as the muscles in his neck strain. The werewolf stares at me with heavy-lidded eyes, his breaths escaping in short bursts.

This is what I crave, the sight I tried to picture at night when I touched myself. But nothing is as good as the real thing. My imagination couldn't conjure up the sturdy feel of his body between my legs or the rasp of his chest hair against my palms. My brain wasn't able to form the salt and musky scent of him or the exact pitch of his growls. Until a few days ago, I didn't even consider that he would growl.

And I never could have imagined the expression Warner would have when we finally joined together. The mixture of lust and need and worship rocks me.

In self-preservation, I close my eyes, focusing instead on the thick heat of him inside me.