"Mary Janice Davidson - Wyndham Werewolves 01 - Love's Prisoner" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davidson Mary Janice)

nipples harden so much it was almost painful. When his lips brushed across one she almost wept with
relief, even as she was pushing against his shoulders with all her strength. He rubbed his cheek against
that same nipple, his stubble rasping across the sensitive bud, and her fingers curled into fists so she
wouldn't touch him with tenderness. She couldn't give in to him, no matter how—

Stubble?

He had been clean shaven two minutes ago.

She shoved that thought away, hard. His rough tongue swept across her nipples, a blessed distraction
that made her want to scream, made her want him, and she hated wanting him. She tried to remind
herself that this man was raping her, but the only thing she could really understand was that he was
making her feel as no one had ever made her feel. She was no stranger to sex, but the only man she had
ever been intimate with was her college boyfriend, and that was almost three years ago.

In the back of her mind, a constant refrain: this isn't happening. It's not real. Ten minutes ago I was on
my way home; now I'm having sex in the dark with a stranger. Thus, this is a dream. It can't be
happening,ergo it's not happening. Tempting to believe that voice, to give in to the pleasure he could so
skillfully offer her, to . . .

She realized she hadn't hit him in quite a few seconds. That she no longer wanted him to stop. That
traitorous thought alone galvanized her into raining more blows on his head, until he caught her wrists and
pinned them above her head with one hand.

"Enough," he said hoarsely, and she cringed, wondering if he was going to hit her back. "I don't blame
you one bit, but . . . enough, Jeannie."

He pinned her knees apart with his own, kept her hands out of his way by keeping them above her head,
and bent to kiss her. He jerked back and her teeth snapped together, bare centimeters from his mouth.
He could apparently see in the dark like a cat.

Or a wolf.

She put the ridiculous thought out of her mind as quickly as she could. That way lies madness. That way
lies . . .

His thumb was stroking the soft cotton of her panties. And moving lower. Her breasts were pressed
against his chest, her knees were flat against the carpet, forcing her thighs wide apart, and now his
damned fingers were—were—inside her panties. His breathing was so harsh in the dark, almost panting,
and she could feel his body thrumming with tension, could hear his teeth grinding together as he
fought—what? It was clear he was in the grip of urgent lust, that he wanted to surge inside her and thrust
until he could no longer move, but something was holding him back. And now his fingers were delicately
brushing the plump lips between her thighs, stroking so sweetly and tenderly . . . and then his thumb
slipped between her nether lips while his tongue thrust past her teeth and she nearly shrieked, so intense
was her pleasure.

He groaned into her mouth and then his fingers were spreading her plump folds apart and his thumb was
slipping inside her and his tongue was licking, darting, and she sobbed with frustration and strained
against him. His fingers danced across her slick flesh, sweetly stroking, probing, oh so gently rubbing a
circle around her throbbing clit, a circle that got smaller and smaller . . . and then his thumb was dipping