Page 76 of What The Hex (The Family Spells)
I wanted her—now.
I couldn’t wait.
“Caine!” Grace gasped out as I grabbed her wrist and dragged her down the hall into the storeroom. She was already groaning as I pushed her against a shelf full of cardboard boxes, most of them stuffed with t-shirts and hoodies meant for the store.
The pretty little red dress she was wearing was easily rucked up her hips, and then I was dropping to my knees in front of her.
“Oh goddess, Caine,” she moaned, digging her fingers into my hair as I grabbed at her panties with my wolf teeth and snapped the fine fabric like it was nothing. The fuck was she doing wearing white and red stiped candy cane panties to work? This shit was not conducive to me gettin’ fuckin’ anything done while I was here. “Those were new,” Grace muttered, but not like she gave any shits at all.
What were panties for, if not to be torn right the fuck off?
“Turn around for me, sweetheart, and I’ll take care o’ you.”
Grace drew in a shaky breath, but she did as I asked, turning and putting her hands on one of the lower shelves. The move put her ass and that ripe pussy right in my face. I gripped her hips with both hands and slid my tongue up her swollen folds, tasting the sweetness of her arousal. Even more important than that, the scent … it drove me right up the wall, this feminine musk that thickened my cock beneath the fly of my jeans.
I reached down and yanked the zipper out of the way, freeing myself so that I could grasp the base of my shaft in my hand. With an unforgiving tug, I pulled on my aching dick and licked my wife’s folds as she squirmed and clung to the wooden shelves like her life depended on it.
Probably did, considering how intense I could be when I was getting what I wanted from her.
“Maybe you should—” she began, but I thrust my tongue into her wet heat, cutting off her words. My Grace was smart, and crafty, and magically gifted (despite what Monster said about her being a run-of-the-mill witch), but she sometimes let herself get lost in thoughts or words.
My wolf agreed with that sentiment wholeheartedly, more prone to getting caught in the moment than in vague ideas like should.
“I should stay right where I am and make you come against my face,” I murmured, my lips still pressed to Grace’s soft heat. My tongue laved her body, washing her with the warmth of my mouth and tasting the uniquely feminine musk that my wolf recognized as his alpha. “My female.” The words came out in a growl as I nuzzled even deeper into my wife, tongue slipping into her as I used one hand to work my cock, the other to rub at her clit.
I hoped the vague whisper of Christmas music from the store would drown out Graceley’s moans, but we weren’t open just yet so … screw it. We’d been asleep for weeks; that was a helluva lot of lost time to make up for.
“My alpha female …” I repeated, reading Grace’s enjoyment of the words in the way she shuddered and pushed her hips back against my face. I made sure to rub my stubbled cheeks against the round curve of her ass, rough against smooth. She liked that, too, and her knees wobbled slightly, making me grin.
I adjusted my hand, sliding two fingers into my wife’s waiting heat. Watching her body greedily draw me deeper and feeling the proof of her arousal in the strong contractions of her muscles was a delight.
It’d feel damn good to push my aching shaft into her and finish that way, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the perfection of her body, her ass, her bent over and prone with her red dress rucked up around her hips.
Sight can be just as powerful a sense as touch. I wanted to keep looking. Greedily, my gaze drank her in as I buried my fingers deep, letting Grace take over control of her clit. She kept herself upright with one hand on the shelf, the other between her legs, rubbing frantically as I groaned and worked myself with strong upward motions of my hand. The elevator, is what Spectre called up. Up, up, up, no downward strokes. I liked it better this way.
At the last minute, I paused and snatched the first bit of fabric I could find from the shelf behind me. Turned out that it was a gods-damned Santa hat, complete with red velvet and white fur trim that was probably real (demon fur, ethically sourced—and by that, I mean Spec cut the fucker’s head off in a single swipe of his scythe).
I used that to catch my cum which was sorta unconventional, but real festive and all that. With a snarl, and a ripple of wolf fur across my arms and back, I came hard, filling up that Santa hat with holiday cheer.
