Holy mother of anything holy! Maurice slammed the shifter into Park and managed to get his seat belt unbuckled and the door open all in one movement before alighting from his vehicle. He thought he’d stopped in time—there’d been no telltale thump, at least none he’d been able to discern, and his eyes had locked with hers just as she went down. Trained as he was in noting any expression and skilled at interpreting them, he’d seen no shock, no hint of pain, but rather a kind of exhausted acceptance projected clearly into his mind. He was around the front of the truck and crouched by her side in a heartbeat, cell open in his hand as he punched the button to connect him with emergency services.
She was a crumpled bundle of dark fabric, and he marked that neither arm was outstretched in an attempt to cushion her fall. With infinite care he lifted a sheaf of heavy, dark-gold hair away from her cheek. Her eyes were closed, her pallor obvious, and she breathed with slow, heavy breaths through barely parted lips. And he found himself falling, mesmerized and locked solid in his crouch while his soul soared.
The squawk of the phone pulled him from his reverie as he continued to look for any obvious signs of injury and found none. He told the operator their location and agreed to stay on the line until the EMTs arrived.
As he drifted a finger across the curve of her cheek, he felt the faint wetness of tears, and an instant feeling of rage swept through him, towards whomever or whatever had made this woman cry, followed by a surge of possessiveness. He didn’t question it. He simply knew this woman had been placed in his path, literally, like the answer to all of his hopes, and he was going to embrace the portent.
Gently tapping her cheek, he asked, “Sweetheart? Can you hear me? C’mon, honey, you need to wake up. I need to know if you’re hurt anywhere.”
Her breath hitched, and those long, dark lashes fluttered up—and back down before he could register anything other than a dark, gentian blue.
Gut clenching, he spoke again, a little louder, “Sweetheart! Can you open your eyes?”
“No. Go away.” Very faint, but he heard it, and he ran his finger over her cheek again. He wasn’t used to being denied, and it pricked his dominance, no matter the situation. Pushing the inappropriate reaction away, he made himself wait.
Sirens heralded the arrival of the ambulance, and his woman stirred. This time both eyes opened, at first just to half-mast, and then flew wide. Pools of that deepest purple-blue, the whites marred by a web of fine red lines, met his, and before his fascinated gaze a flush of color slashed across her cheeks. As she began to struggle to move—away from him—he instantly leaned to invade her space, soothing her with a murmur while speaking to her with his eyes. She almost instantly subsided, her body relaxing, eyes dilating before his unspoken command. Submissive. His cock celebrated right alongside his heart, both swelling in confirmation of his One.
The first EMT shouldered past him, and he immediately gave ground, deferring to the medical skill. The other attendant followed, and he could hear her responding in quiet, dulcet tones.
“I’m fine. I actually don’t hurt anywhere.”
Watching as another man ran expert hands over her extremities and checked for broken bones highly provoked Maurice. He wanted to be the one to care for her.
“Susan Peterson. 157 Douglas Street. It’s Tuesday—I’m quite aware!” His woman’s voice was now pinched with annoyance and exhaustion but still low and rich in timbre.
The second EMT helped her to a sitting position and slipped the buttons on her loose black coat, easing her arm from the sleeve. He manipulated a blood pressure cuff while his buddy shone a light in her eyes. Susan. Maurice tasted her name. Susan Peterson. And she lived maybe two blocks from him. He noted the smock she wore, bagging around her torso, nearly hiding the thrust of her breasts. Maybe a little more than a handful—his handful—but the rest of her was too thin.
“Sir?” A burly cop approached. Shit. He’d almost forgotten the circumstances of this accidental meeting.
“She stepped off the curb from behind a parked car, and I nearly hit her,” he admitted instantly.
“You sure you didn’t?” The officer squinted in his direction, hand going to his pocket to fish out a small notebook. His leather weapons’ belt creaked, and Maurice reveled in the sound.
“I’m sure. She just kinda folded to the ground. I’ll get my registration.” He hated to leave her vicinity and worked hard at not casting his glance back at her like some love struck puppy. Except he was—maybe not love struck, but something struck. There was something pure about how he felt.
Her hips higher than her head, Susan couldn’t get any leverage to avoid Maurice’s obvious intent to eat her alive. It felt so…visceral, so amazing, but she was battered by escalating sensations until she thought she’d go over, but then he’d back off and torment another area. Who knew there were so many erogenous zones in her pussy? She was fully aware of her clit, having found that trigger in her teens, but when Maurice sucked one side of her labia deep into his mouth and worried at it with his clever tongue, she couldn’t bite back the wail that rolled up from her throat.
And the little flickers over her perineum, to her anus—they hadn’t talked about anal sex. She had never—
A lance of his stiffened tongue inside her, past those clenching rings of muscle, made her call out a protest before a dark, forbidden sensation subdued it. When a broad digit replaced his tongue, a skewer of stretching pain made her shimmy until it, too, turned into that edgy pleasure. Another digit sought entry in her pussy, joined by another, to fill her, and then he set his lips on her clit and sucked firmly. Screaming, the sound bouncing off the very walls, Susan went over, clenching hard on those fingers. Her thighs slapped together like a vise around Maurice’s head, and she felt him chuckle—chuckle, against her overworked flesh.
She was still sucking in air to ease her lungs and calm her pounding heart when his broad body knelt between her legs, once again stretching her wide. They had discussed birth control, a casual snippet among various topics they covered, and she hadn’t missed the fleeting look of disappointment crossing Maurice’s face when she advised she wasn’t using any. Maybe they should have attached a little more importance to it—but then she registered the snap of latex. Blinking the orgasmic moisture from her eyes, she watched as he sheathed a thick, pulsing erection. It had been a very long time since she’d taken a man inside her body, and he was a little intimidating. She swallowed.
Maurice fisted that appendage, the wide head popping above the flex of his fingers like a magic mushroom. His face was twisted with lust, but his eyes, while hot, were almost reverent. Unbidden, she reached for him. His eyes flashed a warning at the movement before he lowered over her, and she hurriedly put her hands back over her head.
“I’m rushing this, sweetheart. So vanilla. But I can’t wait.” His words emerged behind gritted teeth, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.
Before she could frame a suitable response, he fit himself against her and pushed inside, big cock fighting for entry. The tissues of her channel gave way slowly against the determined pressure, his size so much larger than even two of his fingers. Susan relaxed as best she could and received him, memorizing every tiny move. Her hands crept down to work their way into his hair, feeling the tension pouring from him. And then he was seated as deep as he could go, the weight of his balls up against her.
Big body trembling above her, Maurice lifted his head enough to stare into her eyes. Possessed. The only way to describe how she felt. Possessed. In a good way. Experimentally, she pressed her palms flat against either side of his head and flexed her entire body in one long caress, relishing the coarser hair of his body against the softer textures of her own skin.
As if given a signal, he took hold of her knees, pushing them up and open in one smooth movement, then unleashed himself. His heart thundered in his eyes—she could see it as he took her with pounding, calculated strokes, each thrust filling her and working against something high inside her. Unable to close her eyes for fear of losing herself, she clung to his gaze like a lifeline while he took his pleasure and gave her more. She didn’t participate, she couldn’t. He dominated her, not only with his size, the connection of their bodies, but with his very will. He needed this, as vanilla as he termed it, and she gave it to him. And not having to wonder where to touch, how to move, merely receive, was a godsend.
Incredibly, something loosened inside her as she surrendered. It spiraled in concert with the building pressure of another orgasm.
“Wait for me.” Maurice rasped the command, the cords in his neck as taut as his voice.