Wounded Beast (Gypsy Heroes Book 2) by Georgia le Carre

with satisfaction. As if it gives him pleasure to ruin me for all other men.
    Our flesh slaps with a dull, wet sound while I impale myself on him over and over again. The faster I drop my sweat-slicked body over his shaft, the more heat collects between my legs.
    ‘Harder,’ he spurs me on, and lifts my body to speed me up.
    My sex feels plump and tender with the pounding he is giving it. ‘Damn your devil penis magic. I won’t be able to walk for a week,’ I gasp.
    With muscles clenched, and the very devil in his eyes, he climaxes. Fascinated, I stare at him. He is a magnificent sight of pure maleness. He digs his fingers into my hips and, grabbing handfuls of flesh, he slides me on his body, agitating my clit until my juices flow over his cock and pool between us, and I break apart for the third time.
    This orgasm is like brute force. It slams into me and I howl like a lunatic banshee.
    When I return, breathless and with my hands gripping the sides of his chest, I see a fierce look shining in his eyes. I attempt to get off his body, but he holds on to me tightly.
    ‘Not yet,’ he says.
    ‘No?’
    ‘No,’ he confirms, his eyes so hot and intense that heat crawls up my back and neck. I hope to hell he can’t see it in the dark. To hide, I resort to being flippant. ‘Say hello to the world’s first ever dick warmer,’ I croak.
    He drags his thumb over my lower lip. ‘Your lips are the color of ripe peaches, Savage.’
    I lick my lips self-consciously. ‘You’re full of shit, Eden.’
    He laughs. ‘And your skin shimmers in the dark … like pearls.’
    ‘OK, now you’re really taking the piss.’
    He smiles. There is a new softness and a languor to his face that makes him so damn foxy I want to eat him with a spoon, but I don’t. The earlier cold shoulder from him still kinda hurts. 
    Still, it ’ s not too long before he has me on my hands and knees. Gripping my buttocks hard he plunges into me all over again.

    I drive into her like a man possessed. The room loses its solidity, and drifts away like a cloud. There is only her and me suspended in nothing. My mind spins and old magic circles around us. I lose all sense of time as her essence rushes through me, merging with me and revitalizing everything dead and diseased in my body.
    Freezing cold waves still crash around me, but I do not feel the pain. I tighten my hold on her hips and roar like a beast. I know the pain will come back—its retreat is momentary—but the scale of the relief I experience is impossible to describe.

ELEVEN

    You can forget so many evenings of sadness
    For a morning of tenderness.
                            —Je sais, Jean Gabin
    I wake up on my back with my cheek pressed against Dom’s chest, his big palm resting on my belly, my feet entangled with his, a raging thirst, bursting for a pee, and a twenty-four carat bitch of a headache. My head is pounding so hard it hurts to even breathe.
    Never again, I swear.
    Gingerly, I lift his hand and, easing myself away from his heavy, warm bulk, I sit up at the edge of the bed. Separated from his body I immediately feel cold and hollow. Just the air conditioning turned up too high, I tell myself. I swing my legs to the cold ground. Ouch, my head. In the blue glow of the night light I make my way to the bathroom. Ohhhh … Peeing hurts, too. With a long sigh I go into the kitchen in search of a glass of water. On the island top I see a black napkin with two painkillers neatly laid out next to a glass of water.
    For a second I stare blankly at the sight.
    He put it out for me!
    I scratch my head. Ouch. I shuffle over to the napkin, pop the pills, down the water, and head back to bed. Very, very gently, because my head has now started throbbing hard enough to break, I slide back under the covers. A powerful arm circles my waist and a sleepy, warm voice murmurs in my hair, ‘Sleep, sweet Ella. You’ll feel better in the morning.’
    Unable to speak, I close my