Wicked Werewolf Night

Aylia was standing outside Nico’s hotel room, willing herself to knock, when Nico opened the door and pulled her inside. Suddenly, she was against the wall, and he was pressed against her, his fingers threading through her hair, dragging her mouth to his.

“Now we talk,” he said, his breath warm on her lips.

“This isn’t talking,” she panted, telling herself to push him away, but melting into him instead.

“Foreplay to conversation,” he said, closing his mouth over hers.

Aylia moaned as his tongue stroked hers, as a year of needing him and missing him tore through her. She couldn’t fight this, didn’t even try. She wrapped her arms around his neck, arching into him, craving the feel of his hard body against hers; the sanctuary he’d always been to her.

He growled low in his throat, deepening the kiss, the taste of him – spicy, male, erotic - driving her wild.

His hands slid down her waist, one shoving her skirt up, caressing her backside and then cupping it, pulling her against the hard ridge of his erection.

She pressed her hands under his shirt, seeking skin, seeking that ultimate connection, the
freedom of barriers, the escape from everything that had gone wrong between them, everything that still could. She just needed him.