Page 38 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

She did as he directed, touching herself with the skill that came from many years of learning what she liked best. Thumbing and squeezing her nipples, pleasure shot from them to her cunt.

With a sharp cry, she came. Her body arched and it was all she could do to keep from flying off the potting bench. Yet he held her in place, supporting her as he took her through one climax to the next, and another. He was unyielding in his purpose to pleasure her. Nothing, it seemed, gratified him more than her ecstasy.

“Please,” she gasped.

He lifted his head, his face glossed with her arousal. “Stop?”

“More.” Boneless, graceless, she tried to pull him up.

He rose, and she fumbled with the fall of his breeches. As she tried to undo the buttons, her fingers brushed against the heavy, curved length of him, and she stilled.

“You’re very” she gulped “sizable.”

“Don’t worry, sparrow.” His smile flashed, more wicked than playful. “You can take me.”

“I’ll have to trust you in this.” She had to trust him in nearly everything.

Together, they undid his breeches, his hands much faster than hers. The buckskin parted and he pulled himself free.

“Now I’m truly going to have to trust you,” she gulped, finally seeing his considerable proportions. That he could fit inside her seemed nearly impossible.

His cock was thick and veined, the head round and dark. A gleam of fluid pearled at the slit. She had minimal experience with men’s bodies, even less with their cocks, but to her eyes, Des’s cock was stunning. Crude and beautiful at the same time.

Tentatively, she reached out, then pulled her hand back.

“Yes, love,” he rumbled. “Touch me.”

She did as he urged, trailing her fingers up his length and glossing the fluid over his head, which she slicked back down his shaft. He hissed in a breath.

“Be bold, sparrow.” He spoke in a strangled voice. “Take me in your hand.”

She wrapped her fingers around his thickness. Her fingers didn’t meet. A quick pulse of comingled fear and excitement throbbed through her, each heightening the other.

“There’s a good girl,” Des growled. “Pump me. Nice and hard.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“The only way you could hurt me is if you stopped.”

“I don’t want to do that,” she said.

“Then stroke me.” His voice was bestial, low.

She’d grown strong from her solitary life, cooking her own food, fetching her own water, carrying heavy loads throughout the house. And with this strength, she did what he asked, pumping her hand up and down his shaft. She learned his feel, the softness of his flesh over rigid iron, and how, when she stroked hard over the head and then down with unrelenting pressure, he would curse and praise in a ragged growl, his eyes narrowed but still brilliant blue, the muscles in his neck tense and strained, and the profound pleasure on his face turning him into a martyred saint.

There was strength here. He was in her hand, in every way. He was hers to command, this powerful man, so much larger than her, and yet now, at this moment, he belonged to her.

Heady, this sensation. She’d never known anything like it. Whatever it took to chase this feeling, she would gladly do it.

Suddenly, his hand covered hers, stilling her.

“If you don’t stop now,” he said, hoarse, “I’ll spend all over your tits.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” she confessed.

He groaned. “Another time. Now, though, I need in you.”

“That’s where I want you, too. You can spend inside me.”