At Full Sprint (A BBW Shifter Romance) (Last of the Shapeshifters) by A.E. Grace Page A

his lower lip. “Every single thing I see.” And then he placed his tip at her entrance.
    “Oh, God,” she groaned as he began to push inside her. His helmet was wide, and it took a bit of encouragement before he finally got the ridge inside her, and she winced as she felt herself stretch, bordering on pain, and yet somehow feeling fantastic.
    “Slowly, Miles,” she gasped, opening her legs wider and reaching for one of his arms. She held onto his wrist, but he turned it over and took her hand into his, their fingers interlocking.
    “God, you’re tight,” he told her, and there was no mistaking the appreciation in his voice. “You feel great, babe.”
    The affectionate term caught Circe by surprise, and she held his hand tighter, looked at his lips, beckoned him with her eyes to come and kiss her. And he did, and it was passion and fire and tongue and teeth.
    Inch by inch she grew used to him, the elasticity of her muscles acclimatized to him. And when he bottomed out, pubic bone against her yearning bud, she held onto his neck, and whispered into his ear, “Make me yours.”
    She met his gradual rhythm, lifting her hips to mirror his thrusts, savoring the feeling of being so filled up. It was altogether different from her last – and only – experience with a man. As though everywhere inside her canal was being touched all at once. Her sensory centers were set on fire, her nervous system firing to the pace of his sliding shaft.
    “Oh, shit,” she mewled. He began to speed up, and connected at their foreheads, they shared breath, panting and breathing and moaning and groaning into each other, sharing their pleasure with one another.
    Circe tried to keep her eyes open, tried to look at Miles, this handsome, playful, energetic and sexy man. It seemed unreal to her that this was happening, that she had let this happen so easily.
    “Oh!” she moaned, louder this time as he picked up the pace still. He sent a hand down in between them and caressed her pearl. She leaned up and kissed him hungrily, clamping onto his lower lip, refusing to let him go.
    She clawed at his back as he fucked her harder still, until the slapping sounds of their sex, of their slick and sweaty skin, filled the air around them. Until the smell of their union was thick and viscous, submerging them.
    And still he fucked her harder. And still he fingered her clit faster. And still her pleasure climbed, her body tightened, her coil wound. And still her string grew tauter.
    “Oh, Miles,” she breathed into his ear. “Oh, God. Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop!”
    He claimed her lips with his, forcing the kiss upon her moaning mouth.
    “I’ll never stop,” he whispered, his voice imbued with affectionate, impassioned double-meaning, but Circe was too wrapped up in her own impending rapture to be caught off guard by it.
    “Faster!” she screamed. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”
    She crossed that line, like a thump in her chest, and it was just a full sprint to the edge. She dived off.
    She soared.
    “FUUUUCCKK!” she wailed, digging her nails into Miles’ back as he drove her through her crisis, his deft fingers slowing, drawing out her orgasm, prolonging it.
    “Oooohhh!” she moaned, pushing her head back against the bed, angling her chin upward to the ceiling, teeth gritted and toes curled.
    Her bliss, sharp, so intense it almost hurt, crested, and like the tide receding at sunset, her sensations cooled, and she met his eyes with her own heavy-lidded orbs, and told him in a voice so lust-laced that it even surprised herself: “Come inside me, Miles.”
    He grinned at her, before scooping up her head with his huge hand and pulling it upward for the kiss. And he held the kiss, tongue dancing with hers, while he fucked her shallowly, just with the tip, his thrusts rapid, like the firing pistons of a sports car.
    She moaned continuously as he brought himself to bear, and she held him tight when she felt his body grow tight, when he