Page 17 of Devilishly Hers (Monster Mountain Romance #1)
The wet heat of his mouth combined with the gentle scrape of his fangs against my most sensitive flesh drives me to the edge of madness.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” he growls against my pussy, his voice muffled by my flesh. “I could eat you for hours, make you come on my tongue over and over until you ’re begging me to stop.” His words vibrate against my clit, sending fresh waves of pleasure through me.
The mate bond amplifies every sensation—his satisfaction at my response, feeding back into my own pleasure until the boundaries between us blur.
His mouth moves with exquisite precision, his tongue tracing delicate patterns that send electric currents racing through me. Each stroke, each deliberate caress, seems perfectly calibrated to drive me higher, as though he’s conducting intimate research into exactly what makes me come undone.
His wings shift with barely contained desire, the membranes trembling slightly as he exercises exquisite control over his more primal instincts. His tail winds more securely around my thigh, holding me open to his exploration with gentle insistence that sends fresh heat coursing through me.
“Your taste exceeds all hypothetical projections,” he murmurs against my most sensitive flesh, the vibration of his words adding a new dimension to the pleasure building within me. “I could conduct this particular experiment for hours .”
“That would be…” My voice fractures as his tongue finds a rhythm that makes coherent speech nearly impossible. “Statistically significant… data collection.”
His quiet laugh sends ripples of excitement racing along already overstimulated nerve endings.
One finger, claws retracted, traces gentle patterns against my entrance, careful pressure that questions rather than demands.
When I arch into the contact, silent permission granted through body language rather than word s, he slowly presses inside with devastating precision.
His movements become more deliberate, his finger curling to find that perfect spot within me as his mouth continues its relentless attention above.
When he adds a second finger, stretching me deliciously while his tongue circles my swollen clit, I cry out his name like a prayer.
The rhythm he establishes—fingers pumping while his mouth sucks and licks—has me trembling on the precipice of release.
“I’m going to come,” I gasp, my thighs trembling around his head. “Dante, I’m going to—” But words dissolve into incoherent cries as he doubles his efforts, his tongue flicking faster against my clit while his fingers press the sensitive hollow on my front wall that makes my vision go white.
The dual stimulation proves overwhelming. Pleasure crests with unexpected intensity. Every muscle in my body ripples in ecstasy as I greedily press against him, silently demanding even more pressure—which he eagerly delivers.
My back arches off the bed, my body tensing and trembling as waves of bliss wash through me.
The climax builds and crashes through me, each spasm more intense than the last. I’m vaguely aware of the sounds escaping me—breathless moans and broken fragments of his name—as my hands clutch desperately at his horns, needing something to anchor me as I’m swept away.
The climax seems to last forever, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me until I’m left trembling and gasping in his arms.
Through the haze of afterma th, I feel him press tender kisses to my inner thigh, my hipbone, my stomach—each touch reverent in ways that transcend physical desire.
When he finally moves up my body to claim my mouth again, I taste myself on his tongue.
The intimacy of it sends fresh heat coursing through my veins.
The combination of his weight above me and the taste we share creates a new kind of intimacy—raw and unfiltered, with nothing hidden between us.
“Your chromatic responses during climax are fascinating,” he murmurs against my neck. The scientific terminology clearly meant to tease. “The correlation between pleasure intensity and skin flushing patterns warrants further investigation.”
“You’re mocking my research methodology,” I accuse with a smile, fingers tracing the sensitive edge of his wing where it joins his shoulder.
The membrane feels like velvet beneath my fingertips, and he shudders at my touch, his control slipping just enough to let me glimpse the desire he’s barely containing.
“Merely applying your analytical approach to new subject matter.” His skin transforms to that iridescent shade that indicates profound emotion as my touch grows more deliberate. “Though my observational objectivity might be somewhat compromised under current circumstances.”
The confession of vulnerability—couched in scientific terminology that mirrors my own defense mechanisms—melts something in my chest. With newfound boldness, I push against his shoulder until he allows himself to be guided onto his back, wings spread beneath him across the bed.
“My research indicates th orough investigation requires examining all variables,” I inform him, straddling his hips with a deliberate movement that draws a hiss through his fangs. “Including reciprocal stimulation patterns.”
He releases a deep sound from the back of his throat, betraying emotions his carefully controlled expression attempts to hide. “Very thorough methodology.”
“Scientific excellence requires comprehensive data collection.” My hands make quick work of his remaining clothing, revealing the full glory of his inhuman beauty. Crimson skin transitions through darker shades as my fingers trace the defined muscles of his chest and the ridges of his abdomen.
Each touch reveals new textures—places where scales give way to smoother skin, ridges that catch the light, patterns that respond to my caress by darkening to deeper shades of crimson.
His body is a landscape I’m determined to map completely, cataloging every reaction, every subtle hitch and shift in his breathing.
When my exploration reaches lower, my hand curling around the impressive evidence of his desire, his wings tremble visibly. The same crimson color that paints his skin extends to his intimate anatomy, though here it seems more intense, almost luminous in the crystal light.
He’s perfectly proportioned, substantial without being intimidating, and the warmth of him pulses against my palm. A bead of moisture forms at the tip, and I brush my thumb across it, fascinated by the way his entire body tenses at this simple touch.
When our gazes connect, I s lowly reach my tongue between my lips and lap the drop of his essence from my fingertip. His head thrashes so violently, it’s a wonder his horns stay on his head.
Closing my lips into a smile, while never taking my gaze off him, I grip his thick length, noting a subtle pulse that somehow matches the rhythm of my heartbeat—another manifestation of the mate bond, creating synchrony even in our most private connection.
It’s as though our bodies are speaking to each other on a primal level that transcends conscious thought, each touch echoing through both of us.
When I force my gaze to his face, I’m mesmerized for a moment. This male is handsome in an otherworldly way, but here, in bed together, with his crimson eyes unfocused and his fangs biting his bottom lip to maintain control, he’s utterly beautiful.
The contrast fascinates me—such a powerful being willingly surrendering control, trusting me completely despite knowing I’m hiding something from him.
His wings flare and tremble with each movement of my hand, his tail coiling and uncoiling against the sheets—all those powerful, inhuman parts of him responding to my human touch with unrestrained desire.
“The way you’re looking at me…” His voice grates out over a raw throat. “Such desire.”
“You aren’t the only one who was impatiently waiting for this.” My fingers trace patterns along his length that make his skin darken further.
His quiet laugh turns to a groan as I lower my head. I trace my tongue along the sensitive underside of his arousal. The taste of him—exotic yet somehow familiar—sends s uch unexpected heat pooling between my thighs that I can’t suppress a moan.
He tastes like nothing I’ve experienced before—slightly sweet, with an underlying spice that makes my tongue tingle. I’m instantly addicted, lapping at his slit for more.
The sound he makes when I take him fully into my mouth is half growl, half desperate gasp, and the vibration of it travels through his entire body.
“Blair.” My name emerges as a reverent prayer as I take him into my mouth, his claws clutching the sheets with careful restraint that makes something primal within me purr with satisfaction.
His control is remarkable—even in this moment of intense pleasure, he keeps his claws carefully away from my skin, his strength perfectly measured. The knowledge that such a powerful being is holding himself in check for my safety only heightens my desire to push him further.
His color shifts beneath my ministrations, darkening to deep garnet, then lightening to bright crimson with each wave of pleasure—a visual representation of the sensations coursing through him.
Something electric arcs between us, his pleasure feeding into mine until I can’t tell where he ends and I begin.
It’s an intoxicating circuit—his pleasure feeding into mine, which spurs my efforts, which then heighten his response. I can feel the tension building in his body as though it were my own, feel the edge of control fraying with each movement of my lips and tongue.
His wings extend fully as p leasure builds, the membranes fluttering with barely contained response. Through the mate bond, I feel his mounting tension, his struggle to maintain control when instinct urges surrender.