"Don't — talk to it like —"
"Shh." Her grip tightened and stroked it again, slower this time, her thumb tracing the thick vein that ran the underside of his shaft from root to crown like a river on a map leading to ruin.
"Let me look at my beast."
She looked at the twelve inches of rigid, veined, moonlit impossibility in her hand, the thick root where it emerged from his pelvis, the base girthy enough that both her hands stacked end to end still wouldn't cover its full length.
The angry, swollen crown that was already weeping for her, the slit producing a continuous, slow leak of pre-come that trailed in shining threads across her knuckles. And the way the moonlight traced every ridge, every vein, every inch of this weapon that had permanently ruined her for all other men on the first night he'd used it and had been ruining her with increasing enthusiasm ever since.
Melissa's thighs fell open wider in the process.
It was not a conscious decision.
