Description : Burning Dawn
HE LIVED SEX. Breathed sex. Ate sex.
He was sex.
Maybe that was his name.
No. That wasn’t what she called him. She—his heart. His reason for being.
She would straddle his waist, feed his aching length into her hungry body, and say, “My slave needs me more than air to breathe, doesn’t he?”
My Slave. Yes. That was his name.
My Slave wanted his woman. Craved her like water to drink.
Must have her.
Only she would do. He couldn’t live without her smoke-and-dreams scent...mmm, or her too-close-to-the-sun heat...or her fiery claws. How deeply those little daggers cut into his bare chest. And her peekaboo fangs...how deliciously they nipped at the vein in his neck.
She was perfect, and only when she was with him, her strong body taking and receiving pleasure, was the gnawing hunger within him finally satisfied.
Must. Have. Her. NOW.
But...he looked around. She wasn’t with him. He tried to rise from the bed. Something bound his wrists and ankles again. Not rope. Not this time. Too cold, too hard. Steel? He didn’t care enough to look.
Problem. Solution. My Slave gritted his teeth and jerked with all his considerable might. Skin tore, muscle ripped, and bone snapped. Pain. Freedom. He grinned. His woman was out there. Soon he would find her. He would thrust inside her and slake his need for her. Again and again and again...
Nothing and no one would stop him.
* * *
“HE’S LOOSE AGAIN,” someone grumbled.
At the pond washing clothes and dreaming of salted caramel cupcakes...and frosted brownies...and,...