On the Prowl

like a painter making his first delicate stroke on clean canvas.
    “Mona Lisa,” he murmured, and his lips touched mine again, harder, firmer, more possessive. The tip of his tongue touched my lips, lapped wetly over my seam asking for entrance, and I granted it to him and tasted him as he tasted me, anchoring my spinning world with my hands grasping his broad shoulders. He tasted warm, sweet, and nutty. Like mead. Like ambrosia. Flavored like the sun, tasting of the earth. He explored my mouth, tangled his tongue with mine, and I sucked upon him, lapped him up. I felt him twist and move against me as he freed himself of his clothing, and then his hands were finally upon me and I cried out at the joy, at the relief of feeling them. Of feeling him, naked and hard and ready against me. Touch me, yes. Touch me. And he did.
    My world spun, tilted, and I was on the ground, my back crunching fallen leaves beneath as Dontaine covered me from above. His weight upon me was deliciously hard, deliciously dominating, as he parted my legs, and I felt him hard, thick, and poised at my body’s entrance. I looked into his face above me, his nostrils flared wide as he breathed in my scent, my body’s wet readiness, his eyes hard, intent, a glittering shining brown, almost blind in his driving urge to possess me, the slash of his cheekbones taut and flushed, reddened in rising desire like his lips, drawing my eyes to the chiseled perfection of his mouth, his strong chin, his every feature. Like a Greek god come to passionate life. I wondered how I could have turned from him before. And I stiffened as I remembered what he had offered me then. A child.
    Desperately I struggled to push aside the lust-crazed need to mate. Tried to concentrate, focus, think on that very important fact. “Wait,” I said urgently, and felt him hold himself coiled and still above me. And realized how terribly vulnerable I was to him in this position. One move and he would be in me and I would be unable to stop him. And I would no longer want to.
    My eyes locked with his, and we held ourselves poised there for one terrible long moment, on the threshold of something wonderful. On the brink of something disastrous.
    “I can’t…No children, Dontaine. I can’t get pregnant.” Could not risk what I would pass on to a child in my possessed state. No other word for it. Possessed and driven by instincts not just Monère but demon dead.
    I felt his entire body clench. Felt every powerful, strong muscle lock in silent protest as he fought himself. Fought against every screaming male and animal instinct he had to plunge himself into me and mate. His brown eyes glittered so sharply down at me that I was surprised they did not cut me. His face was tight, almost brutal, above me, and he growled. Actually growled. One poised terrible moment…then he rolled abruptly off me and lay on his side, breathing harshly.
    I went limp with relief. With knowing how closely we had come to disaster. “Thank you. Thank you, Dontaine,” I said, touching his shoulder. He flinched as if I had whipped him, his entire body coiled tight.
    “We can have sex,” I whispered tentatively, my hand frozen still on his shoulder. “Just…I can’t risk getting pregnant. Not now. Not while I’m like this.”
    He took a deep, shuddering breath. “All right,” he said, managing to sound oddly calm and reasonable, while every muscle in his body screamed with tension.
    Hesitantly, I smoothed my hand down his shoulder, ran it lightly down his arm. And that stroking caress flared anew that drowning sensuality, that powerful draw of male to Queen. He shuddered as I drew myself against him, rubbed myself against his back. Stroked my hand against his chest, pausing to circle once each tight flat nipple. I lifted myself over him and rolled him onto his back, and he moved unresistingly where I wanted him to go.
    I almost purred at the pleasure of seeing him spread out like a beautiful offering before me, and didn’t even try to resist the bounty of his lovely body. I kissed his other shoulder, trailed my lips down a sinewy forearm. Whispered them over his puckered nipples, lapping my tongue roughly over the little soldiers that had come so attentively to attention, while my left hand roamed lower, following the lightly furred trail that arrowed down his middle, leading me to where he pointed straight up like a giant tree towering over thick brush. I touched him, ran my hand up and then down,