Her nose pressed against his stomach. His cock was in her throat—twelve inches, the shaft buried, the head deep, the balls against her chin.
Her eyes rolled—the pheromones, the scent, the lack of air, the overwhelming, all-consuming presence of his cock in her throat. Her body went limp. Her hands slid from his thighs.
Her eyes fluttered—half-closed, the lids heavy, the pupils dilated. She was dizzy. The pheromones were in her brain. In her blood. The scent of him—the musk, the power, the ancient, wordless authority of a man who was not quite human—was filling her. Overwhelming her. Erasing her thoughts.
Her son.
The thought was there. Somewhere. Beneath the pheromones. Beneath the cock in her throat. Beneath the dizziness and the arousal and the overwhelming, all-consuming need to suck and swallow and serve. The thought was there—small, distant, fading. Her son. Taken. Kidnapped. Gone.
The thought faded.
