Page 38 of A Malicious Menagerie (Fangs & Fables #1)
He starts at my mouth, slamming his lips down on mine as he tunnels his fingers through my hair.
I gasp as he coaxes my lips to part so he can stroke his tongue along mine before drawing back to prick my sensitive lower lip with his fangs.
The coppery taste of my own blood and the sharp sting should scare me off, but as my heart speeds in response, I remember how it felt to flee through the woods with him on my heels: terrifying, exhilarating, and freeing.
As he leans back to lick the cherry-red smear from his bottom lip, I twine my fingers in his dark hair and pull him back down for more.
The combination of adrenaline and desire is heady.
I’ve never been high before, but I can’t imagine it feels better than this.
Once I have his lips back where I want them, my hands get bolder, my thumbs tracing the blade-sharp line of his jaw under the rasp of his stubble before I slip my palms down his neck to his broad shoulders.
His skin is smooth and scalding under my fingertips, and my greedy hands can’t help but seek out more, first pressing to his firm pecs to feel the steady quake of his growl before dropping to his taut belly.
I trace the grooves between each abdominal muscle with one featherlight fingertip, his skin twitching and core tightening in my wake until he feels like a marble statue carved by one of the masters.
How many times have I fantasized about touching him like this?
And, if I’m being honest with myself, how many times alone in my bed have I done a little more than just fantasize?
When I scratch my fingernails lightly through the trail of dark hair tracking up from his groin, he breaks the kiss with a growled curse only to move his lips down to my neck.
I let my head fall back, baring my vulnerable throat, and his satisfied rumble vibrates against my hypersensitive skin.
He drops one hand to grasp the top edge of my shirt.
Before I can react, he gives a sharp tug, causing most of the buttons to snap off and drop down to be lost forever amidst the dirt and moss and brown pine needles.
The sudden brush of the cool, damp air against my chest and abdomen makes goosebumps riot over my exposed skin.
“Chase!” I squeak, ready to tell him off, but he wastes no time scattering my thoughts more thoroughly than my buttons.
He presses his calloused palms flat to my belly, and a deep warmth blooms through me, chasing away the chill.
His hands are so big that they span from my waistband to the bottom of my bra.
I gasp at the sensation of his fingers brushing the undersides of my breasts, even that barely-there touch sending a shockwave of need to my core.
Chase gives a low rumble of approval at the sound and slides both hands up to cup my breasts through my black cotton bra.
His big palms dwarf the slight swells, which would be embarrassing if his anguished groan didn’t tell me exactly how much he likes them.
A fierce ache surges, making my nipples tighten instantly beneath the thin fabric .
“Fuck,” he grits out. His sharp fangs prick the hollow at the base of my throat, and my jugular, so close to danger, taps frenetically under my skin.
His lips trail lower, igniting every nerve along their path.
He plumps my breasts in his hands and nuzzles the narrow valley of my cleavage before bestowing another sharp nip to the soft inner curve of one breast. Molten pleasure pools in my belly, and my hands fly up to grip his short hair to hold him against me.
I must be tugging hard enough to sting, but he only growls more fervently.
Still intent on his vow to devour me, he abruptly grabs one side of my bra like he did my shirt and yanks the cup down, baring one breast. Immediately, he draws the pale pink peak between his lips and sucks, shooting an electric thrill from my chest to add to the escalating throb at the junction of my thighs.
The slick ache is so all-consuming that it threatens to buckle my knees, and I throw up one hand with a gasp to grip a steel bar beside my head in a desperate attempt to stay upright.
“Chase,” I moan, my voice pleading, though I’m not sure what I’m even asking for until he abandons my breast to trace a path down the center of my belly with his lips, tongue, and teeth.
As his lips dip below my sternum, he falls to his knees, and there’s something weirdly thrilling about having a werewolf—a character of myth and legend who could eviscerate me in seconds—kneel at my feet.
When he grasps the front of my black jeans with one hand, the backs of his knuckles brushing against my lower belly, and draws my waistband down an inch to expose more vulnerable territory for his conquest, it becomes clear what he really intends to ‘devour.’ I slip my hand from his hair to the back of his neck, digging my nails into the muscle there.
I should pull him away. Right? That would be the responsible thing to do.
After all, I doubt Mathis would approve of paying me to hook up with “his” werewolf.
Still, when Chase trails his other hand over my hip to undo the button on my jeans, I don’t stop him.
When he catches the tiny metal tab and lowers the zipper, the rasping sound of the teeth only slightly louder than my panting, I let him.
And when he mumbles “too fucking cute” at the sight of the grinning jack-o’-lantern pattern on my panties and leans forward to press a kiss to the skin just above the waistband, I use my grip on the back of his neck to hold him there.
His lips trail down to brush over the damp cotton framed by the V of my open fly, and my face flushes red-hot when his shoulders rise on a deep inhale.
“You smell so good,” he growls, and I shiver at the sensation of his warm breath and his lips moving against my mound.
Before I can think of a response more appropriate than “thank you?”, Chase has tugged both of my boots off, leaving me curling my sock-clad toes in the soft loam underfoot.
He goes to work on my jeans next, tugging them down my hips and thighs with an impatient grumble.
My panties go with them, so when I step out of my jeans, I’m naked except for my disheveled bra, ruined shirt, and ruby red cape.
The feeling of being exposed strikes me abruptly.
Did I remember to shave my legs? Do I have a weird tan line from wearing shorts while walking poodles over the summer?
Based on Chase’s rapt attention, none of that matters to him anyway. He looks up at me as he runs his calloused palms up and down over my trembling thighs, and his eyes glint like golden pirate treasure from under the dark fringe of his lashes. “Do you want this, Anna?”
“Yes,” I breathe. The word is barely past my lips before he lifts my leg onto his shoulder, the back of my thigh resting on his bare skin.
Before I can try to catch my balance on one foot, that leg is suddenly over his shoulder, too.
I squeak and tighten my grip on the steel bar, sure I’m about to fall on my ass.
But the change in position puts most of my weight on either the metal at my back or on Chase’s sturdy shoulders, and while the steel poles are a little uncomfortable as they press into my shoulder blades, what Chase is doing more than distracts me.
He slips his rough hands beneath my ass, supporting more of my weight and kneading both cheeks with a pleased grunt. Then, with no further preamble, he laves a long lick through my folds, and my head falls back with a moan that matches the one Chase huffs against my clit.
I’ve never felt so aware, so grounded in my own body.
Forgetting about Chase’s bite earlier, I suck my lower lip between my teeth and startle at the small sting followed by the renewed taste of my blood blooming on my tongue.
The flavor is a sharp, metallic counterpoint to the warm, syrupy pleasure concentrated under Chase’s tongue.
Earthy, elemental, like the way I need him.
When he slips his tongue inside of me, I make an incoherent sound somewhere between a squawk and a squeal.
Chase’s shoulders shake with laughter under my thighs, and by the time he leans back enough to smirk up at me, I can already feel the radioactive flush illuminating my cheeks.
To my horror, with so much skin exposed, I can see that even the tops of my breasts and my inner thighs are red. Who knew I was such a profound blusher?
“Pretend you didn’t hear that,” I tell him, only my fear of falling from my precarious perch keeping me from letting go of him to cover my face in mortification.
Instead, I’m forced to watch as he grins, revealing deep dimples and lethal fangs.
“No way,” he replies, voice warm with humor.
“That’s going straight into the spank bank. ”
My jaw drops. “You’re horrible.”
“I try,” he replies with a modest shrug, and I squeak again and tighten my grip on the steel bar to keep from sliding from his shoulders.
Desperate to change the subject, I blurt, “You better not be thinking of using those fangs.”
Turning his head, he nips at my inner thigh.
My heart ricochets around my rib cage at the threat of those razor-sharp weapons so close to my femoral artery even as my sensitized pussy clenches with want .
“Not anywhere you wouldn’t want them,” Chase murmurs before pressing his lips to the small red mark blooming from his bite.
He trails his lips back up my thigh toward my center as if he can’t help but gravitate there like iron to a magnet, and I unconsciously tip my hips up in invitation.