Page 16 of Zeppelin (Satan’s Angels MC #9)

The world has told me that I’ve been wrong for the things I’ve done my whole life.

Women shouldn’t have desires like men. Women shouldn’t have dark desires or taboo fantasies.

A woman shouldn’t want to be the one who doesn’t want something serious or something that lasts.

Women don’t initiate. Women aren’t wild.

Women don’t love sex. Women don’t crave.

They don’t have animalistic impulses. All my life, I’ve had one simple thought that encompasses all those backwards stereotypes dumped on females.

Screw that. I’ll be who I want to be and I refuse to be ashamed.

I’ve never done things the conventional way, but it’s highly irregular to be down here in a cellar with Zeppelin, who he is, and all that he represents.

Zeppelin’s hand splays over my lower back rubbing a small circle there while I carry on an internal conversation with myself about whether I should be doing this.

His eyes are dark and fathomless, his face twisted, almost ravaged.

It’s all desire. Hard as I search, I don’t find a single trace of guilt or revulsion there.

A touch of amusement, though I don’t know what’s funny.

It’s maybe more amazement and shock that translates into humor because that’s the only way he can process it.

“A regular person wouldn’t do this, would they?” My words seem to shimmer in the glow from my phone.

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know that we’re regular people.”

That’s the answer I need, the only thing I need to hear. He’s not sorry. He doesn’t have regrets. He’s already weighed the cost of this, whatever its and however far it goes, against not doing it and always wondering what would have happened if we did.

I step back into him when the hand at my back draws me in against his body. He’s radiating heat and want, a brutal sort of lust that overrides everything else—reason, sanity, better judgment—and I know he feels it every bit as intensely as I do.

Honestly, just about always, I’m the one who makes the first move.

I’m the sexual aggressor. I’m the one who shows and asks, explains and demands, guides and demonstrates.

I’m not embarrassed to demonstrate how I want to be touched, if that’s what it takes or give a command.

I’ve always secretly wished that someone else would take control and manhandle me a little.

Not roughly, just… I guess I’ve always wanted to find someone who could blow past the barriers I erect and possess me.

Maybe more than just my body, but even physically would be a good place to start.

When Zeppelin kisses me, it’s demanding.

Unyielding. Searching. Brutal. He’s still gentle, but this time, I get to feel all his hard edges.

I kiss him back, but instead of me fighting against him, it only serves to deepen the kiss.

He moves in tandem with me, kissing me the way I’ve always dreamed of being kissed.

He does it all, tongue stroking mine, his hand at my back, and then he spins me around, walking me back and pinning me against the wooden wall.

I gasp as he gathers my wrists in his hand and raises them above my head. The cellar has a surprisingly high ceiling. It’s dug down deep, so that even Zeppelin, with all his height, doesn’t have to worry about knocking himself senseless on the beams above.

My arms stretch all the way up, leaving my breasts heaving.

With his other hand, he palms my ass through my dress, slamming my hips against his groin. He’s somehow not at all rough with me, though the movements have that air to them. He’s still careful with my body, still very aware that he needs to be gentle with me.

I don’t particularly want gentle.

I cant my hips up, trying to rub against him. If my hands were free, I’d undo his zipper, and pull his cock out. I’d prepare him with my hand, making sure that thick length is properly slick before I’d pull my dress up and push my panties aside for him.

“God, Zeppelin. I want you to fuck me against this wall. Hard and fast and kind of dirty. Fully dressed. I need you inside of me.”

I don’t know if it’s the hormones that make me feel so out of control, but the heat building inside of me is blistering .

He hesitates, shoulders heaving and abs pumping in and out as he sucks in rougher breaths than I’ve seen him take yet. I’m terrified he’ll say no, and march upstairs straight into the rain just to cool down. “I don’t have a condom. I’m clean, but… it’s rude, don’t you think?”

I bite down on my lower lip, rolling it between my teeth until I taste the tang of metal, just so I don’t laugh.

He’s trying to be considerate. “I don’t think it’s rude, Zep.

” What I think is that if I don’t get his hot, thick cock inside of me right now, splitting me apart, driving me back and forth against this damn wall while I wrap my legs around him and scratch up his back, I might freaking die of this ache. “I think that’s really quite hot.”

It’s not that I believe in just raw-dog winging it.

That’s not how I ended up pregnant. We did use condoms, and I trusted my own cycle, but as I learned, nothing is one hundred percent effective.

But despite all that I’m pregnant, and that means that I don’t need to pause to calculate where I am.

I don’t need to worry about gloving up and still being careful.

“It’s hot,” I reiterate, driving myself against him so that his cock presses into my lower belly again. “I want to feel every inch of you. I want you in me, coming in me, filling me.” I’m pregnant, but that’s something I’ve never done with anyone before.

“Ginny,” he groans. “You’re going to fucking kill me here. You’re far more dangerous than any storm out there. I’m going to lose myself in you.”

“I want to lose myself in you too.” It’s terrifying, but that’s the unfiltered truth.

I press harder against him, until there’s nowhere for my body to go.

There’s only him and the ache inside of that I’d do just about anything to banish right now.

He still won’t let my hands go. If I told him to, I know he’d release them in a second, but I don’t want to tell him.

It’s hotter to maintain the illusion that I’ve surrendered my control.

I do still have teeth, even if my claws are sheathed.

When Zeppelin tries to kiss me again, I let him, but I lightly graze his lip with my teeth, this time intentionally.

He doesn’t pull back. I suck his bottom lip into my mouth, sinking my teeth into it.

I release him, but scrape my teeth over his neck, to his earlobe.

I give myself a taste of everything I needed.

The salt of his skin, the soft part of his neck where there are so many nerves, and a place that he never knew could feel so good.

Those little teasing tastes only make me hungrier for more.

I want to be down on my knees, his cock in my mouth, the salty tang of precum on my tongue.

I want to suck his balls and drive him mad.

I want all the things that people don’t talk about doing because they think good girls don’t do them.

I want his cock, his fingers, his mouth, and more.

I want the unexpected, I want toys, I want to be up on my bed, reverse riding his face while I suck his cock.

I’m so wet that my panties are a second skin, clinging wetly to my body.

He finally drops my hands. I bring them straight to his shoulders and dig my short nails in.

He latches his mouth to mine in a punishing kiss that drives my head back against the wall, effectively pinning me there while his hand starts at my knee, lifting the hem of my dress.

His hot fingers trail over my thigh, his rough skin so abrasive against my sensitive thigh that my skin breaks out in goosebumps.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he sighs when he reaches my panties. It’s obvious that he doesn’t find that to be a bad thing.

“Yes.” The word paints his lips. “Don’t worry, it’s all for you. It’s not the storm that turns me on.”

He grunts, balls my panties in his fist, and attempts to tear them clean off my body.

Except they’re sturdy. Very sturdy.

So all I get is a whole lot of wedgie and rugburn but from fabric.

“Argh!” I hiccup-yell.

He yelps too. “Sorry! That went a different way in my head.” He’s much smoother grabbing the waistband and shimmying them down my thighs.

I toe off my sandals and lift my feet. As soon as I’m free, I lift one leg all the way and curl it around Zeppelin’s thigh.

I half climb him, sticking my foot into his upper thigh and grinding myself against him.

There’s still the barrier of my dress trapped between us, but I’m even more sensitive without my panties.

It feels cooler, the air hitting my sensitive, overheated skin.

Zeppelin’s hand strokes my lifted leg all the way to the crease.

His fingers play through my curls and then head lower, parting my seam and teasing me as with those rough, strong, capable fingers.

Once he’s soaked them with my wetness, he swirls two over my clit.

I arch into his hand, throwing my head back against the wall and moaning shamelessly at how good it feels.

He moves away to tease my entrance, testing how ready I am. It should be pretty obvious, given that if I get any wetter, I’d rival the storm out there.

Is it even still raging, or is it over already, the sun peeking out through the clouds, the air clean and fresh?

I don’t care. I’m not leaving this cellar.

Zeppelin’s fingers push inside, giving me just enough to make me squirm and buck against the wall and against him.

“Fuck me, Zeppelin,” I half hiss, half wail.

“Is that fuck me, Zeppelin as in an exclamation of delight, or fuck me right here and now until I can’t take a single inch more, as a command? ”

It sounds so wonderfully dirty when he says it in his rough voice, gone deeper and huskier with desire.