Warlock Wolf / Bring The Night / Chapter 5

A safe distance back, she pivoted, short skirt twirling—giving him a peek of her upper thighs—and dropped to her knees before him.

“Did it bite you, Agent Black? Did it . . . did it say anything?”

“What? Say anything?—it’s a doll.”

“It didn’t say anything?” Her eyes met his; an honest, hopeful, endless blue. . . . “Black?” She shook him.

“No, it didn’t say anything, it just came flying out from under the fucking—sorry, out from under the bed, and I went to shoot it, but my gun . . . ” His eyes wandered to the left, saw his pistol laying dormant and useless on its side. In the sudden panic of a devil doll looking to stab his balls into lunch meat, he’d panicked, let the thing get too close, and dropped his gun. He would need to spend some more time on the range, apparently. He continued: “ . . . jammed. My gun jammed.”

“It wouldn’t have done you any good,” she said, grasping his collar with both her hands, and roaming his face and head with her eyes. “It bit you, it bit you—are you all right?” Her delightful hands caressed his skin now, elegant fingers like silk on the stubble of his neck.

“It bit me. . . . What does that mean?”

A slow smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “It means you have about six hours of humanity left, I’m afraid, then you’re going to turn into a doll.”

He frowned, struggled to say something, shaking his head. Her smile widened, and she made a soft snort in her throat.

“Very funny, very funny—it feels like it pulled my ear off, you know,” he said, wincing, watching her pretty eyes as they studied his injury.

“It’s attached,” she laughed, “it’s still there—your handsome ear is on your handsome head.” Now her features fell, like she realized what she’d just said and regretted it.

His hand went to his neck, unstuck the butcher knife, held it between them for a moment by the blade, the cop in him thinking to preserve any prints on the handle for some crazy reason. He lay it aside on the hardwood at the rug’s edge.

He licked his lips, let his eyes meet hers again, feeling a rising heat return. “What do you mean it wouldn’t do any good?”

“Your gun? It’s just bullets.”

“You whacked him with a sword pretty good and—”

“That’s not just a sword,” she said, looking over her shoulder where her bejeweled weapon lay on the hardwood. “That’s . . . special.”

“Do I need special bullets,” he asked, not even believing something so stupid was coming out of his mouth, “like magic bullets?”

She smiled. Her hands had never left his neck and now she seemed to loom above him, larger than life and more beautiful than ever; his heart swelled in his chest. “Sometimes,” she said, laughing, “sometimes . . . you never know.”

She ducked her chin down bashfully, then her eyes came up to his again. “I’m so glad you’re okay, Black.” Now her face came close, and he held his breath. She pressed the softest, sweetest lips to his forehead and gave him a gentle kiss that sent sparkles behind his eyes.

It embarrassed her, and when she pulled her mouth back, she slumped, grimaced, and averted her eyes. Her cheeks went rosy. When she tried to withdraw, sitting back on her heels, her hands leaving him, he grabbed her wrists, and now he rose. Both of them were on their knees and face to face, not saying anything, breathing heavy and looking in each other’s eyes.

He said, “Your eyes . . . They sparkle.”

“They’re just blue,” she said with a breathy laugh, the soft breeze on his face giving him goosebumps.

He said, “They’re more than blue.”

“I like . . . I like your eyes, too,” she whispered.

He had to lick his lips again; he could see a tremble in hers. He said, “The black magic, it’s making me feel something funny.”

She nodded.

“Yeah,” he continued, “something . . . for you.”

“That’s not the black magic. It’s something else. I feel it, too.” 

“What . . . what is it?”

She shook her head side to side, shrugging her shoulders; her wrists turned in his grasp and now she put her hands inside his. He intertwined their fingers, stroked a thumb over her knuckles.

She whispered, “We can’t . . . we can’t do anything, Agent Black . . . The sorority, they wouldn’t...”

“I know—the Bureau, they wouldn’t...”

But their mouths collided with frantic hunger, and he took her tongue because she gave it to him eagerly; he teased it with his own, and now she gulped, moaned, grabbed his lapels, pushed him back. Their mouths separated with a wet smack. Their eyes were locked again, both their chests rising and falling under their jackets. He covered his hands over hers; she held the fabric still, and they trembled.

He said, “We can’t.”

But then any resolve was crumbling, and Lizzy was on him again with her mouth, those soft, damp lips kissing at his neck, her hands slipping inside his jacket, running over his chest, pushing it off his shoulders. And he was doing the same, one hand cupping her neck, feeling her fine, precious skin, the other hand slipping under her jacket and resting on the narrow of her waist, feeling her trim body under the Oxford cotton of her school-uniform dress shirt.

The room spun around them, and together they tumbled to the floor, him on top of her, her knees up in his armpits. Their mouths worked at making slick wet sounds, their tongues jammed and swirled; grunts and moans escaped their throats and his hips jabbed his hardness against her—it strained against the wool blend of his favorite suit pants. Lizzy’s slim hips wiggled under him, working her own soft sex against the steel rod in his underwear. The underbelly of his manhood pushed into the cotton cleft of her mound, and she burst out a breathy gasp.

“God, yes,” she sighed and circled his neck with an arm. Her other hand slipped between them and when he felt her fumbling with his belt buckle, he jerked his hands down to take over while they still kissed.

Now his hands scrambled to draw down his zipper, part his boxer fly, and hoist out his main sail; hard and throbbing and hot against the wintry cool of the mansion air. The backs of Lizzy’s hands breezed against it as she pushed down her own panties, and the feel of her skin against his totem had his brain doing electric backflips and his head nodding with white hot ecstasy.

Both of them grunted and snorted like animals around each other’s tongues as his hips crashed into hers, that graceful hand of hers leading the point of his sword to her wet scabbard. He slid it home, and she mewled and grabbed a painful handhold on his hair. It drove him wild; wild enough, he made a fierce growling noise that sent Lizzy’s lungs whisking excited air.

When he pushed deeper, he met resistance, the knot of his pole pushing against the tightness of her membranes, hung up somehow, and for a brief moment he’d worried she’d slipped him into the wrong passage; but she gave, and as he plunged deep and she howled, he realized she was a virgin.

His head came back to look in her wild eyes; they were wet and staring but filled with immediate, heartfelt passion. He said, “You’re . . . you’re . . . a . . . vir—”

But she swallowed his dumb words with a hungry kiss, thrusting forward with her tongue and squeezing on his neck with her arms. He pounded into her, his knees working on the carpet until they burned; her bare ass likely feeling the rug’s bite ten times worse. His hand tangled in her hair and they both pulled on each other until they looked into each other’s eyes again.

“That’s it, that’s it,” she encouraged him.

A deep chest rumble rose within him again; her feminine eagerness drawing out the savage animal in him. His pounding came harder.

“Ow, my butt, my butt,” she complained, but made no effort to slow the thrusting of her hips, nor his. His hands went down the backs of her thighs and she raised her knees higher. Now they rocked and shimmied, but it was not the animal thrusting they both wanted.

Without ever having been a dynamic lover anytime in his past, he cupped her butt cheeks now, spread his knees out wide like an outrigger and hoisted her upright; Lizzy, sensing it, hooked her forearms around his neck and somehow in one swoop he was standing up with her legs draped over his hips. He stumbled back with her light weight clinging to him, knowing somewhere behind him was a big, cushiony Queen Anne chair.

They collapsed in it, and it let out a crack like a rifle shot. It wobbled on its legs, but it didn’t deter either of them. She got him connected again and was instantly bouncing in his lap. She cupped his cheeks and kissed his mouth. When she wasn’t kissing him, she was sucking her own lips. Her rocking was as vigorous as his thrusting, but soon the chair began to feel sloshy underneath them; like its legs had gone watery. Each buck of their hips brought the high creak of failing furniture, but they did nothing to protect themselves.

The chair collapsed under them in a burst of splinters and dashed them on the floor. They fell, embraced, rolling until he was over her. One swift move: he was up on his legs, taking her hands...

Extravagant bedroom, big beautiful bed, and they were on the floor and using rickety chairs? Eyes locked on hers, he walked her backward till the backs of her knees bumped the bed, then she was curling over the mattress and he was over her, pulling up her skirt and fixing himself inside her again. Up her knees went, exposing her reception to him with eager teamwork, and now they had the too-thick mattress squeaking and squawking under their thrusts.

The raw need he felt for this girl was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It was more than lust; more than two horny people at the right time and right place; there was something more profound here. He drove hard and pounded, and Lizzy humped him back just as fiercely, both of them surpassing double-time and getting the mattress squealing as they jittered in a frenzied triple-time, this sorority girl he just met with her skirt hiked up to her tum, her pale skinny knees folded up at his hips, her feet curled on the lip of the mattress. His heart had never beat harder.

Lizzy squeaked and gasped, her head thrashing, hands whipping around, beating on the bedding, scratching his back, a distinct tearing sound as her nails plucked at his suit jacket’s fabric. A chant began to form in her throat, sounds taking the shape of Oh, yes, oh, yes, and it drove him to greater heights, and now he could barely catch his breath. Sudden sex with her boiled over mere meaningless ecstatic lust, and his heart seemed to bloom like a flower in his chest, watching the wet inner lining of her peeled back lips and the intimate scoops of her bright pink gums where they hooped over the white shine of her teeth. An overwhelming, bewildering emotion seized him, a deep connection to this girl, like rose vines connecting them, hearts to souls, something deeper than just every inch of his manhood.

The girl came, and the sight of what he believed could be her first orgasm ever pushed his cart up over the peak and soon he was rattling down his own fiery track at breakneck speed. Every measure of restraint he should feel in the moment was torn away and instead of pulling out, he was driving deeper, seeking to finish this thing like a man. He stabbed deep, held, stabbed again, then his cork was popped, and he roared as he gushed gallons inside her. And this girl loved it, legs hiking higher, crossing ankles over his behind in case rationality seized him and he withdrew his spurting weapon.

Back arching, Lizzy moaned and panted for breath, her closed-off face rocking in a tangled nest of beautiful gingery hair. Still he propelled seed inside her, panting deep and desperate, matching her breaths in off-kilter timing, while she writhed against him, still in the throes of the erotic pleasure he’d delivered.

At last, his body sagged against her and she clutched him, hands locking behind his back. They rode the waves of each other’s heaving chests until they both regained usable senses, and Black eased up onto his elbows, while her grip on him loosened. He looked into her eyes and the depth there was startling. She blinked, too, like she’d been shocked by what she saw looking into his eyes. Like the voltage was too high for both of their systems, they averted their gazes in unison.

After a long quiet moment, he whispered, “You’re a virgin?”

She smiled, snuffled breath through her nose. “Not anymore.”

“No,” he agreed. “Not anymore.”

Both of them nibbled their own lips, then gathered the courage to look again—there was electricity still, but it was manageable. The happy, tentative, sheepish expression she held faded, and he watched her pretty face grow worried.

“What’s wrong?”

There was something she struggled to say, and it looked like she might keep it to herself, but at last she whispered, “Don’t trust anyone.”

“What do you mean?”

Her mouth worked around as she looked in his eyes, the moment long and strange and intimate—his penis was still inside her. Lizzy wanted to say more, but stopped. Her mouth clapped closed with a quiet pop and her eyes widened. The luxurious warm grip on his penis tightened and her expression grew horrified.

He hissed, “What is it? What’s wrong?”