Must Love Hellhounds

Stretching out her legs, she raised her arms above her head. “And you know they can make it feel good if they want.”
    He didn’t answer, his attention very much on her body as she relaxed from the stretch. Then he moved onto the bed, bracing himself above her using his forearms. “Yes?”
    A simple question—one that made her pause and think. Hunters weren’t prudes, but Sara had never had a one-night stand. It simply wasn’t in her. Yet she’d wanted Deacon from the instant she’d seen him. And from the arousal he was making no effort to hide, she knew full well he wanted her, too.
    But they weren’t just two hunters who’d met on the road. “Are you going to get all weird after?”
    “Define weird.” He settled himself more firmly against her.
    She bit back a moan. The man was hot, hard, and more than ready. “I need you to follow orders if I become director.” Her former lovers wouldn’t hesitate, because she hadn’t been a candidate for the critically important position then. But now she was very much a candidate. “Are you going to expect special treatment?”
    “I’m not in bed with the future director. I’m in bed with Sara.”
    “That’s good enough for me.”
    It was tempting to rush, but she stroked her hands into his hair and tugged. The kiss was a punch to the system. Making a sound of sheer pleasure, she wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. The man was big, solid all over. A wall of flesh and bone and muscle contained by granite will. She wanted to rub against him until she purred.
    He bit her lower lip. She gasped in a breath and then it was happening again, the wild rush of sensation, the near-unbearable pleasure, the need to taste him deep. When the kiss broke this time, she nuzzled at his throat, kissing her way along the taut tendons of his neck. He smelled so damn good.
    He tugged her back for another kiss, and somewhere in between, she realized his hand was on her bare back, under her T-shirt. She wanted more. Breaking the kiss, she let go of him and tugged at her T-shirt. Deacon rose off her enough that she could pull it over her head and off.
    “Green?” He traced the scalloped lace of her bra with a single, teasing finger.
    She began to unbutton his shirt even as he unhooked her bra. “It’s my favorite color.”
    “Lucky for me.” The last word was a groan as she flattened her hands on his chest. “Damn lucky.”
    “Off,” she ordered.
    Grunting, he rose to a kneeling position and slid off her bra before getting rid of the shirt. But he didn’t come back down straight away. Instead, he reached out to close one big hand over her breast. She cried out at the unexpectedly bold touch, her eyes clashing with his. Deep green, but no longer calm or unaffected.
    It made the last of her inhibitions fall away, and when he bent his head to her breast, she thrust her hands into his hair and held on for the ride. The Slayer knew what he was doing. There were no hesitant caresses, no requests for more permission. He’d asked once, and she’d acquiesced. Now he took every advantage. Truth to tell, it was beyond erotic being with a man so sure of himself in bed. So sure . . . and so utterly involved. Now she knew the answer to her question—when Deacon lost control, he lost control.
    God, could he get any sexier?
    She wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him wet and deep and open. “I think you should take off your pants.”
    Nuzzling his way down her neck to her pulse point, he reached down to hers instead. But rather than opening the jeans, he slid his hand under the waistband to cup her with bold familiarity. She arched into him, wanting more. “No teasing.”
    A nip at the soft flesh of her breast. Shuddering, she thrust her hands into his hair and tugged. “Don’t you talk in bed?”
    His response was to kiss his way down her breastbone, before sitting back up. Withdrawing his hand with obvious reluctance, he undid her jeans and pulled them off, along with her panties. A still, darkly sensual moment as he simply looked at her. Her body arched in silent invitation. Taking it, he bent down until his lips touched her ear . . . and whispered such wicked promises, such decadent requests, she thought she’d melt from the inside out.
    “Okay, stop talking.” It was too much sensory input, too much pleasure. “Right now.”
    He smiled and sat up, his gaze never leaving her face. The intimacy was blinding. Then one big hand spread on