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  In a flash he had her sleep pants jerked down and off. His strength was so effortless she could only imagine what he was like when he was in top shape; even now he put most men to shame. She had a momentary qualm about being nude while he wasn’t, more vulnerable, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it because he slid down between her legs, lifted her thighs over his shoulders, and put his mouth on her.

  Oh, God. She arched, her fists knotting the sheet. He definitely knew what he was doing. Oh—God! He licked at her, sucked at her. She was flooded with sensation, pleasure that spiked and ebbed, only to spike again. Her muscles clenched and relaxed, clenched and relaxed, caught in a rhythm that grew steadily stronger until she was shaking from the force of it, her body drawn bow-taut and aching. Heat seared her from the inside out until she felt molten.

  Her climax roared at her like a freight train, fast and relentless. She gave a hoarse cry when it hit, the pleasure so all-encompassing she could only endure and try to ride it out. At her cry he surged upward, covered her, reached down to fit the head of his penis to her opening and pushed inside while the spasms were still wracking her. She cried out again, a guttural sound of both shock and ecstasy because he was big enough to stretch her to the point of pain, and feeling the bulk and heat of him so deep inside her intensified the rhythmic clenching of pleasure. She needed something to hold on to, to keep from spinning away, and the only rock she could find was him so she locked her legs and arms around him and clung through the tempest triggered by his hard, deep thrusts.

  Maybe he did last only fifteen seconds; she didn’t know, didn’t care. All that mattered was that they were both caught, riding out the fury together. She was in his arms and he was in hers as he shuddered and bucked in release.

  Then it was over and they lay there like storm wreckage, breathing hard and trembling, unable to muster the strength to separate. Their bodies were sweaty from exertion, glued together. That was good, she thought dimly, managing to lift one hand and put it on his side. He’d finally shed those damn boxers, though she couldn’t have said when. Didn’t matter. Now was what mattered.

  “Holy shit,” he muttered weakly, started to lever himself off her, and instead collapsed back with a groan. He was so heavy she could barely breathe, and she didn’t care. She turned her face against his neck, inhaling his hot male scent and drawing it deep inside her.

  “Stay here a minute.” She loved the feel of him on top of her, inside her. Had sex felt like this before? If it had, she didn’t remember. She couldn’t remember feeling stretched and invaded and possessed; she never would have allowed herself to be possessed. And yet . . . Morgan had done all of that, and she had reveled in it. As intense as the pleasure had been, it had also been mutual, and she had possessed him in turn.

  Slowly their heartbeats returned to normal, their lungs stopped heaving in search of oxygen. Her body felt heavy and relaxed, resembling marshmallow more than muscle. He braced himself on his elbows over her, letting her breathe more easily, and nipped at her lower lip. She nipped in return and he threaded his fingers through her hair and began kissing her, slow deep kisses that impossibly ignited a subtle but unmistakable flare.

  No way. Even if he was capable, she wasn’t. Maybe in an hour or two. Right now she wanted to sleep, though the need to clean up was becoming more pressing with every second. She might need to change the sheets if she had the strength to care.

  He stretched an arm upward and turned on the lamp. She blinked against the flare of light, then smiled at the expression on his face. His hair was damp with sweat, his eyes heavy-lidded from pleasure explored and sated, his mouth curved in pure satisfaction. If ever there had been a perfect picture of masculine sexual triumph, he was it. Her own mouth curved in a smile because the triumph was hers; she had put that look on his face, and she didn’t care if he ever realized it because this wasn’t about keeping score, it was about making each other happy.

  Her heart gave a hard thump of recognition, and she curved her hand around his neck to pull him down for another kiss.

  Just as their mouths were about to meet, he froze. The look of satisfaction on his face changed to consternation.

  Bo frowned in puzzlement. “What’s wrong?”

  He was motionless, as if he’d come face-to-face with a rattlesnake. Slowly he cut his eyes to the left.

  Bo turned her head. Tricks was standing with her muzzle resting on the edge of the bed, her brows beetled above her dark eyes as if she simply couldn’t believe what she’d seen her humans doing. The accusation in her eyes as she stared at Morgan was plain: he had to be the instigator because Bo had never done such a thing before.

  “Ah, shit.” Morgan gently disengaged from Bo’s body and rolled to lie beside her, staring up at the ceiling. “I may never get another hard-on in my life.”

  CHAPTER 19

  HE WAS, HAPPILY, VERY WRONG ABOUT THAT.

  Bo woke naked in his arms, with her head on his shoulder and her legs tangled with his. The bedcovers were evidently somewhere on the floor, given that they were nowhere in sight. She hadn’t been cold at all, not with a living furnace lying next to her. She put her hand on his chest, feeling the crisp hair, the raised scar tissue, the padding of hard muscle. Looking down his long body, she followed the trail of hair down his taut abdomen to his penis and testicles. Men were so interesting, she thought sleepily, with everything out in the open to get in the way and have to be constantly adjusted. How did they even sit down?

  His penis twitched, and she blinked in interest, watching closely. Then it began to swell and lengthen, and she smiled. At this signal he was awake, she tilted her head up to find him watching her. “Good morning,” she said, then nestled her head back on his shoulder.

  “Morning.” His morning voice was always deeper than normal, and rusty. His hand smoothed down her bare back. “Damn, I like your outfit. You should wear it more often.”

  “I wear it every day,” she pointed out.

  “Yeah, it’s the extra layers I don’t like.”

  Just as he was beginning to show her how much he liked her outfit, he jumped and said, “Shit!”

  The tone of voice and word choice were dead giveaways. Bo turned her head, knowing what she would see; Tricks once again was standing beside the bed with her muzzle resting on the mattress, staring accusingly at them.

  Morgan rolled onto his side and stared at the ceiling. “This has to be what parents feel like when they’re getting it on and then see their kid standing there watching them.”

  She snickered. “Not quite. Tricks won’t ask what we’re doing.”

  “Yeah? Look at that expression.”

  “It’s past her breakfast time.” Her regular mealtimes were very important to Tricks.

  He glanced at the clock. “Just five minutes!”

  “She doesn’t care. She knows the numbers on the clock, and she knows we’re late.”

  Once he would have scoffed at the idea that a dog knew numbers, but not now. He rolled out of bed and paused to vigorously rub Tricks’s ears, which she enjoyed but which in no way got her attention off of food, before going on to the bathroom. Bo sighed in appreciation of the scenery, because such a tight, muscular ass was worthy of an in-depth study.

  Then she realized—well, hell; she needed the bathroom too, and she was disconcerted by his occupation of hers. She hadn’t shared a bathroom in so long the logistics hadn’t occurred to her.

  All she could do was roll out of bed, grab some clothes, and trudge down to his bedroom and bathroom. Already he’d marked the territory as his: his scent, his clothes, his toiletry items . . . his pistol on the bedside table. She stood in the middle of the room and simply absorbed the excess of testosterone. Yeah, she was loopy this morning, no doubt about it.

  Tricks made short work of her inaugural trip outside that morning because she was behind in her schedule. If a dog’s attitude could say “hurry up,” then Bo was being dog-nagged . . . not that it was the first time. Tricks didn’t de