Coyote Night (18+)
A coyote howled in the night.
Rose blinked awake, her long dark lashes batting delicately against her cheekbones. Her sleep-clouded eyes focused blearily on the deep indigo of the night sky above her, as wide open as the ocean and pricked with the cold bright points of stars, like ghost lights under the surface of dark water.
She had been dreaming. Of screams of rage, bloody wing feathers, and swords that burned with impossible white fire; a battle more ancient than mankind, fought in those cold dark heavens when the earth had been nothing more than a molten ball of lava and fire spinning in space far below. She had dreamed of this battle over and over since she was very small, and she could never, ever, banish it. Tonight, the horror clung to the edge of her memory like a wisp of black cobweb, sending a shudder down her spine.
The coyote wailed again; a mournful cry that echoed across the dark hills.
Rose sighed, raking her fingers through her tangled curls. A thin sheen of sweat shimmered on her temples, and the night wind felt cool against her damp skin. She looked around the camp, her eyes—amazing eyes, the right as azure as sapphire, the left the warm deep brown of rich fertile earth—flicking here and there. The desert night was softly warm and stunningly clear. All around the little camp that she and Skriker had made the arid New Mexican hills loomed out of the night; silver-frosted silhouettes against the deep backdrop of night.
The hulks of their Harleys—Skriker’s big black-and-chrome Heritage Softail and her slick-as-shit Nightster—loomed silently just beyond where they had laid their sleeping bag down. Another breeze blew past, rustling the scrub ever so gently, caressing her skin as softly as a lover.
They had ridden through Gallup the day before, their bikes roaring down Route 66. After speaking to a few wary locals they left town and entered the desert, planning to stop for the night along the ninety four-mile journey from Gallup to Shiprock. They had set up camp at the edge of the Navajo Reservation around dusk, unpacking weapons and salt and a hefty pack of beer from Skriker’s saddlebags.
They built a motherfucker of a campfire, scattered rock salt in a protective circle all around their camp, and had sat beside it together, chain-smoking cigarettes and downing Newcastle’s as they planned out their hunt. Then they had had achingly hot sex under the stars, relishing their solitude in the dry warmth of the desert wilderness, putting on quite a show for the creatures that made this part of New Mexico their home.
Rose let the sleeping bag coverlet fall away, revealing her full, magnificent breasts to the empty night. She turned to the big lump laying next to her, a lump that snorted softly as she gently shook it.
“Skrike,” she murmured. “Skrike, honey…”
Skriker grunted again and rolled over onto his back; she saw him blink, saw the flickering pinpricks of fire that burned in his eyes. Her mouth twisted—even after almost a year of being together, of pairing up on hunts and screwing each other’s brains out and loving each other like mad—she still couldn’t completely get used to the fact that her soulmate had turned out to be half demon. Perhaps if she had not been the daughter of a Warrior of Heaven, she wouldn’t have felt this way—
“Rosie? What’s up, baby?”
Skriker was gazing at her in the silvery starlight, his eyes cooled back to their normal pretty green, and she instantly banished any negative thoughts about his lineage. She smiled wanly at him as he reached up and gingerly stroked his big tattooed fingers against her scarred cheek.
“Bad dream?” he murmured.
She smiled bashfully. “How can you tell?”
He flashed her that bad boy smirk she had come to utterly adore. “I can read your mind, remember?”
He sat up, stretching, his spine popping luxuriously; the sleeping bag coverlet fell away and his body caught the low-burning light of their campfire. Hard, sloping muscles, broad shoulders, flat rippling belly—the body of a fucking Greek god. A slew of gorgeous tattoos—two full sleeves, hands, knuckles, and most of his broad chest inked in vivid full color. Rose loved to caress that tattooed skin, her long fingers tracing the carefully rendered lines that made up the leering faces of demons, dark thorny roses, rich blue-green Nordic knotwork. The chunky spikes of his naturally platinum blond hair stuck up every which way, a result of their good rough wrestle under the covers earlier that evening. Skriker reached around and scratched his bare backside, yawning, before plucking up his leathers and snatching a cigarette from his ubiquitous pack of Camels.
“Same dream?” he asked her as he lit up demon-style, pressing his fingertip to the end of the smoke and setting it gently alight with the fire that surged silently in his very genes. He puffed, exhaling into the desert night. In the hills beyond, the coyote yipped once, fell silent.
She raised her odd eyes to his. “I have lots of dreams, Skrike.”
Rose looked away, out at the desert. “No. Not this time.”
Rose didn’t respond. Skriker took another puff of his fag before offering it to her. She accepted it, taking a drag before handing it back to him. He crushed it out in the sandy dirt next to the sleeping bag and smirked at her, waving her over.
“Come here, baby.”
Rose shook her head doggedly. “We’re on a hunt, Skrike. Gallup is behind us and we know where we have to go. If we’re up, we may as well stoke the fire, let you eat something, and pull out that map so we can track down our Guide—”
She glanced at him coyly from beneath her lashes; he was just sitting there, looking at her with a carefree smirk that told her she was talking too much. His pale spiked hair and tight smooth skin caught the glow of the fire, and her heart quickened. “Yeah?”
“Come here and lie down.” He patted his long muscular thigh where it stuck out from under the covers, smirking at her.
She obeyed, crawling over to him. He eased her onto her back, gently laying her head in his lap. He began to stroke her hair back from her forehead, his fingers raking through her lush dark curls, spreading her tresses out over his legs. Above them the stars wheeled and the night breeze carried the scent of cactus flowers to their camp.
“I keep telling you,” he whispered as his fingertips brushed lightly over her face, touching her lips like a butterfly’s kiss, tracing the perfectly sculpted line of her jaw, moving down the long curve of her throat. “You need to chill a little, baby…relax, you know? Take it easy. Leave all that angel shit behind you…”
Rose grunted. “It’s not that easy for me, Skrike. These dreams are genetic memory…I can’t just banish them…and I can’t even come close to telling you how awful it is. Seeing the War Above through my father’s eyes; seeing other angels slaughter each other like cattle as if I were in his head…”
Skriker chuckled and suddenly his left hand was moving down, cupping her full right breast in his palm. She sighed, whimpering softly as his callused fingers gently pinched the turgid bud of her nipple, tweaking it, sending warm luxurious waves of pleasure washing through her limbs and belly.
“What do you say I help you forget about that for a while?” he murmured, his right hand gently massaging the back of her neck. Rose sighed, arching her back, pushing upward against the caress of his hand moving over her breasts. He bent his head and kissed her, his tongue flicking against her parting lips. She could feel his cock pushing eagerly against the sleeping bag slung across his lap.
“You’re a bad angel, baby.”
She giggled like a schoolgirl; he could make her do that, in a way that no one ever had. “I’m sorry.”
Skriker grinned, his jade eyes sparkling. Out in the wilderness, the coyotes continued to cry.
The desert sunrise that greeted them was a masterpiece; a coral, yellow and pale orange watercolor stain spreading across the sky, turning the scrub-speckled hills briefly to rose gold. The dawn chased them down the highway, their bikes roaring.
Their interest in what lurked in this arid landscape had been piqued when some guy had opened his mouth after a few too many pints at the Beelzebub Club and Skriker, fresh out of the fight cage, had overheard him. Word was that children had been disappearing on the Navajo reservation near Shiprock, and hysterical tourists had reported being attacked in their vehicles on the open road by a shadowy creature that could only be described as hair-raising—red-eyed, gnarly, half-animal, half-human—or so they said. Skriker had come to Rose and begged her to join him on the hunt; in his mind, she knew, he was really seeing it as a fantastic couple’s road trip, allowing them to get far out of their city and into the wilderness. The classic Route 66 awaited them and their Harleys, as did open stretches of desert where they could camp under the stars and fuck like horny teenagers…the chance of slaying the skinwalker that supposedly haunted the region near Shiprock was simply the icing on Skriker’s gore-soaked cake. Rose had agreed readily; she was eager to flee the city for a while, get away from her father’s constant watch.
They had ridden into Gallup and first met with a New Mexico State Police officer who had reported seeing the thing they hunted. Over coffee and pie at a greasy diner, he described a ghoulish white-faced being that had appeared out of nowhere as he drove his cruiser down the highway. The grizzly horror had kept perfect pace with the vehicle for several miles and had left the officer half-paralyzed from fear.
The thing was taking kids on the reservation, he told them, snatching them away to God knew where. The old Navajo stories told that the skinwalker bothered only the tribe, but this one had grown bolder, had begun traveling to reaches outside of the reservation. He had begged them to keep quiet about this, fearful that his reputation would be on the line. Rose had smiled warmly at him, resting her long graceful hand on his, and his fear seemed to melt away as he gazed longingly at her. Skriker had cleared his throat a few too many times, glaring narrowly at their interviewee; this had charmed Rose to no end. She had teased him as they left the diner and climbed onto their bikes.
“You being jealous, honey?”
Skriker had snorted, raking his fingers through his hair, blushing only a little. “No way. Soft-bellied motherfucker doesn’t hold a candle to me.”
Rose had laughed brightly, tossing her head as they blasted off down the road. Certainly, she had made it up to him that night by the campfire. This had pleased him immensely and quieted his anxieties.
Now, as they rode into the Navajo reservation, Skriker was in good spirits. He cruised alongside her, his dusty aviator goggles catching the hard sunlight, a good-natured smirk plastered to his face. Their bikes kicked up long billowing tails of grainy dust as they turned off of Route 66 and onto a dirt road that led them deeper into the Reservation, passing thick clusters of scrub and blossoming cacti standing tall beside the road. They began to pass small homesteads consisting mostly of old mobile homes, rusted out cars, and scruffy dogs bounding through the tall yellowed grass of their overgrown yards. Soon Skriker dropped back and slipped his Softail behind Rose’s Nightster, allowing her to lead the way.
Like a ship in view of a lighthouse on the shore, she knew where she was going.
Thirty minutes in Rose turned down a tiny private dirt road and slowed; her bike glided to a smooth stop in front of a white-and-mint-green mobile home. Skriker pulled up beside her and dropped his feet, slamming his kickstand down with the heel of his boot. He stood up, his saddle still crammed between his legs as he looked around.
While the land around the property was sterile and arid, the mobile home was surrounded by lush desert life: prickly pear cacti bursting with lush magenta fruit, brilliantly colored wildflowers, and tall grasses that waved gently like long spindly fingers. Chokecherry and juniper bush. A small clay fountain trickled beside the door of the trailer, and wind chimes tinkled merrily in the breeze. Rose slipped off her bike and tucked the sunglasses she had been wearing into a pocket of her motorcycle jacket.
“This the place Asherah told you to go?” Skriker asked her. She nodded slowly, and very briefly her gaze took on that distant look that revealed her celestial ancestry quite distinctly: distant, thoughtful, impossibly knowing. A silvery gleam that was there and then gone, like a metallic ghost.
“Who’s here, baby?” Skriker asked.
“An ally. Someone who can help us find what we’re looking for.”
They tripped up the rickety stairs leading to the front door and it swung open with a plastic creak. A tall, dignified looking Navajo man stood in the doorway. He looked to be around sixty, with long salt-and-pepper hair reaching his waist. He wore blue jeans and a red checked flannel shirt that seemed too warm for the desert weather, tucked tidily into the jeans. A big gorgeous silver and turquoise belt buckle gleamed at his waist, and his skin was the color of warm wood bark. His mouth was like a knife slash, but the dark eyes above it belied a warm heart. When he spotted Rose, the knife slash broke into a joyful grin.
“Changing Woman is old,” Uncle Nick chuckled. “Older than the Earth, as lovely as she may still be.”
“And this is the half-demon that you have taken as a lover,” he remarked, and Rose grinned.
“Yes, Uncle Nick. This is Skriker. He’s my dearest companion and the finest hunter I know. Skrike, this is Nick Whitehorse. A great shaman and healer.”
Skriker cut in, rolling his eyes. “Let me guess: Billy Idol. Yeah, I get that a lot. Thanks, pops.”
Rose looked back at Uncle Nick, her dark brows furrowing. “But how did you know that he’s a Halfling?” she asked.
Uncle Nick chuckled. “The Holy People gossip much from where they live among the stars, and I hear them whisper. You know that well.”
Rose nodded, rolling her eyes. “I do indeed.”
Uncle Nick snorted. “Angel. Ha! A white man’s word. Come in and rest. You’ve been riding your steel horses hard, I can see.”
They followed him into the mobile home, a tidy space filled with furniture that collected together reminded Skriker of a thrift store. An older model TV and VCR. Shelves filled with books. The walls were hung with native Navajo weavings, beautiful intricacies dyed with natural pigments that had been used for generations. Warm earthy incense shimmered in the air. Uncle Nick seated them at a small dining room table and pulled three ice cold cans of Budweiser from the fridge. Skriker downed half of his Bud in one long gulp; Rose sipped hers delicately.
“So,” Skriker spoke up, “how do you know Rose?”
Uncle Nick shook his head. “I don’t, not personally. I know Estanathlehi, or Changing Woman…who you call Asherah. I have heard her voice since birth. It is she who created my people, the Dine, from water and corn dust mixed with skin from her breasts. The Holy People, her children in the skies, speak to me…or rather, I can hear their words. They have whispered of your woman, and of you, and of your woman’s father, who was once one of their greatest warriors.”
He looked to Rose, and his dark gaze softened. “You still dream of the great war the Holy People fought in the skies, long before they appeared to the Dine here on earth.”
Rose jerked at his words, and her half-empty beer can rattled on the table. “How do you know that?” she whispered. “Asherah—Estanathlehi—told you so—”
Uncle Nick shook his head. “No. I could see it in your eyes. These memories…your father gave them to you. They were carried in his very seed.”
Skriker snorted. “Alexius.”
“Annoying fucker, isn’t he?”
Rose shot him a dirty look; Uncle Nick only chuckled. “I have never met him. I have actually never seen even one of the Holy People; they remain invisible to me. But I hear them. Oh, yes…I hear them. At times as distinctly as I hear you, sitting before me.”
“Are you human?” Rose asked. “I sense that you are…and yet…”
“Yes. And no.”
“That’s specific,” Skriker quipped. Rose elbowed him in the arm, glaring, and he promptly shut up, downing the rest of his beer. Uncle Nick pushed another cold one across the table to him and Skriker noticed a sterling silver and turquoise ring on his right ring finger; the band was a gleaming coiled snake. “Drink up, half-demon white man. I must speak to your woman about what you seek.”
They conversed for about an hour, cracking open several more Budweisers in the process. Uncle Nick spoke of the skinwalker that was said to haunt their destination at Shiprock; a creature that held dreadful horrors for the Navajo. So evil that to speak of it would bring bad fortune upon the speaker and his clan.
“So why do you speak of it?” Skriker asked. “Aren’t you afraid?”
Uncle Nick shrugged. “I’m not like other people. My magic protects me—the skinwalker will not cross my threshold.”
“Can you sense it?” Rose asked. “When it’s near, I mean.”
Skriker pulled his pack of Camels out and flashed them in offering at Uncle Nick. The Navajo man grinned and nodded. “Ah, good. Thank you.”
Skriker smirked and passed him a cigarette before plugging one into the corner of his mouth. Uncle Nick watched with amusement as Skriker lit up demon-style.
“I am sure your white man rock star cannot do that.”
Skriker exhaled smoke and snorted. “Um, no. Doubt it. So tell me, Nick…what exactly is a skinwalker, here in your part of the world? My mother was from Sweden, and I know for a fact that there are wolf skin or bear skin shapeshifters—berserkers, they’re called—still in Northern Europe. I’ve hunted them myself.”
Uncle Nick nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I have heard of the white man’s skinwalker. There are similarities. But the power that created the skinwalker you seek at Shiprock is older than that which made your berserker. Much, much older. The being you seek…it is a man, you see. A man who has drawn Coyote’s skin over his own and become something…more. It has made him immortal.”
Rose’s dark brows furrowed. “So this is a man? A human?”
“Yes. A human, but also an incredibly powerful witch. The yee naaldlooshii, as it is known among my people. A person who has gained great supernatural power by breaking a sacred taboo and has entered initiation into the Witchery Way, usually by slaying a close relative, a great crime among my people. Most are men, and if a woman becomes yee naaldlooshii, she must be childless. The skinwalker can read one’s thoughts and uses wicked charms to wreak havoc upon the tribe his hate rests upon.” He took a long drag on his Camel and exhaled; between he and Skriker there was now a murky cloud of cigarette smoke floating sluggishly through the kitchen.
“What about Shiprock?” Rose asked. “Where we’re headed…why would that place draw a skinwalker?”
Uncle Nick cocked his head and his gaze sharpened. “I would not tell any mortal white man this story; to do so would bring terrible luck upon myself and possibly my tribe. But being what you are, both of you, I will tell you. You must promise to never speak again of it to another soul. I do not wish to see my people cursed.”
Rose nodded solemnly. “We promise.”
“What the white men have called Shiprock we call Tse Bit’ A’i. It is said that a long time ago the Dine were hard pressed by our enemies. Our medicine men prayed for deliverance, and their pleas were heard by the Holy People. This caused the earth to rise, lifting the Dine, moving them up and away from their enemies. The Navajos lived upon this new mountain in peace and happiness, only descending to plant crops or get water. Then, one day while the men were working the fields below, a terrible storm blew up and the trail up the rock was split off by lightning and only the sheer cliff of Shiprock was left. The women, children, and old people died of hunger and thirst atop the mountain, and their bodies rotted away to dust there, and now their ghosts remain. The ch’iidii, as we call them. The power of Tse Bit’ A’I surely draw the skinwalker, although his presence is a blasphemy at such a sacred place. Your camping near the rock itself may draw him to you.”
Skriker leaned forward across the table and tapped the scratched laminate surface with a tattooed finger.
“Okay, fine, pops. Ghosts we can handle. But I just need to know one thing. How do we kill the skinwalker?”
Uncle Nick shook his head doggedly. “It isn’t that easy. Many have tried and died in the process. The only magic to be used is to roll your bullets in fresh white ash. But even this will be difficult, and may well not work. The yee naaldlooshii will trick you with his cleverness and magic. He weaves lies as your demon ancestors did. If you manage to shoot him, it must be through his throat…only his throat. But know that this will be difficult.”
They each finished the last beer and Rose and Skriker stood up, thanking Uncle Nick for his help; Rose embraced him warmly, kissing his dark bronze cheek before striding down the front steps toward the Harleys. As Skriker held out his hand to shake Nick’s, the old man nodded toward the doorway of his trailer and the desert wilds beyond and leaned close.
“Beware, Northman,” he said quietly. “The yee naaldlooshii you seek at Tse Bit’ A’i will surely have a powerful appetite for your beautiful woman, the daughter of the Holy Person. He will do everything in his power to steal her away from you. Beware of this. If the skinwalker takes her, you may never recover her.”
Skriker stared at him, his mouth twisting. “Thank you,” he said softly before ascending the trailer’s rickety front steps.
Uncle Nick watched them mount their bikes, gunning the engines, twin roars on a hot late spring day. As they blasted off down his drive and turned onto the road leading to Shiprock, he nodded knowingly to himself.
He would wait… Estanathlehi’s voice would tell him if his help was needed.
And these two looked quite likely to get into trouble.
The sweetness of cactus blossoms and an arid tang of scrub greeted the hunters as they came upon Shiprock, a huge looming colossus in the distance. Skriker and Rose blasted down the hardpacked dirt road that ran parallel to the monument. Before long, they had picked out a spot to camp a ways off of the road and had unpacked, building a huge campfire and setting their weapons out to prepare for the hunt as the old shaman had directed them. Skriker fixed himself a small meal and chowed down as twilight approached, watching his lover across the fire as she busied herself with the warrior’s tasks at hand.
Night came on slowly, as it did in the warmer months, arid and quiet, the stars intensely bright pricks above them. Skriker tossed dry wood and animal bones into the fire, watching the blaze burn hotter. He raked cooled white ash onto a tin plate and rolled his slugs around in the feathery soft white powder, coating them thickly before reloading his sawed off. He raised his eyes and looked at Rose, who was busy deconstructing her Glock and laying her bullets out neatly on the long leather strip set out on her blanket. He watched her work, watched the orange firelight catch in her dark curls, highlighting fingers of deep mahogany-red in each luxurious strand. Watched her dark eyelashes cast shadows on her cheekbones, her long fingers deftly working on the task at hand. The pink scars on her cheeks faintly gleaming. He recalled Uncle Nick’s words
if the skinwalker takes her, you may never recover her…
and he felt as if a chunk of lead were setting in his belly. He recalled an awful memory from nearly a year ago when he had watched a white-clad demoness slam Rose into a dirt road and nearly choke the life out of her. Recalled his beloved’s blank stare and the bruises on her throat when he ran to her.
“Rosie?” he said softly. She looked up at him, her odd eyes gleaming in the firelight, and smiled when she saw his wistful expression.
“Okay, Skrike, what are you thinking about?”
He swallowed the lump in his throat and spoke the same words he spoke on nearly every hunt. “When are you gonna marry me, baby?”
Rose stared at him for a long moment, and very briefly he was sure that she was going to say yes; finally, this time she’d say it. Then she smirked bitterly at him and looked back down at her weapon.
“I love you more than anything, Skrike,” she said softly. “Always will. But the answer’s still no. I’ve told you again and again: things like us… can’t marry.”
He asked another question, one he had posed to her many times.
“Because it’s suggesting too much. We’re hunters, and on top of that, we’re probably the most oddball couple all of Creation has ever seen. Marrying would just tempt disaster. You know that. Marriage is for people who want children, a family—”
His voice cracked a little when he spoke again. “Maybe I do want a family.”
She looked up at him again, a tad shocked at his reply, and she had to have seen his hurt, because she reloaded her Glock and locked the safety, slipping it into her holster as she crawled over to him. She posed beside him on all fours, her leathers gleaming in the firelight, and he felt his heart quicken wildly.
“You busy with something?” she murmured silkily, her lips suddenly a breath’s distance from his. He exhaled raggedly and shook his head.
They set their weapons aside—close by enough to reach—and undressed each other in the firelight, peeling boots and belts and clothing away with eager hands. Skriker’s cock was rock-hard by the time they both were naked, and Rose went to work on him, pulling his big erection into her mouth, working his inches with torturous perfection. She slowly licked the length of his shaft, her tongue hot and slick, before slipping her lips over the big snubbed head, pulling him into the warm silky cavern of her mouth. She sucked away, her head bobbing rhythmically, her hands gripping and massaging the base of his cock as she orally worked his inches. She took him deeper, swallowing him with a whore’s skill until no more of his massive tool could possibly fit down her throat; from there she continued to suck and deep-throat him with slow, torturous skill. Skriker squeezed his eyes shut, moaning and grunting like an animal, his fingers tangling into her curls, one hand moving down to gently caress her jaw, his heart hammering so hard that he was certain it would burst out of his chest and bounce off into the desert darkness.
“Bad angel,” he panted as she pulled away, her mouth making a distinct popping noise as she released him, leaving his fat rod spit-wet and throbbing. “You’re a bad, bad angel, Rosie. And, God, I love it…”
She grinned at him wickedly and stretched out onto the outspread sleeping bag, her body a devastating curve in the firelight, the taut flesh of her full breasts and flat belly and long strong legs already shimmering with a thin sheen of sweat. Her thighs spread for him, revealing her dark tangled mound and the silken pink folds just beneath it, already parting like moist rose petals before the dawn, begging to be stroked and pampered, and oh, she was incredible.
“What are you going do for me, bad boy?” she murmured.
His green eyes glittered, tomcat-sly. “I’m gonna make you beg.”
Her eyes blazed, and he could see the excitement, the urgent temptation that was already building below the surface, like a volcano preparing to erupt. She spoke again, trying to sound casual. He knew better.
“Is that so?”
He crawled to her and settled down beside her on the sleeping bag, cradling her head with his right arm. He kissed her slowly, sensually, as his left hand wandered over the high thrust of her breasts. Her mouth was soft and luscious, her angel’s breath as sweet as candy, and Skriker found himself trying not to tremble, his urgency already like a flame fanned by some mighty tempest wind. But he would hold back; the skilled lover that he knew that if he could make her reach a boiling point, make her beg deliriously for his meat, the end reward would be rich for both indeed.
Skriker moved down and engaged her breasts, those full perfect globes that he had adored from the moment he had first laid eyes on her. He kissed and licked the curvaceous undersides of her left breast, nibbling at her smooth pale flesh as he moved in a slow, titillating circle around her full soft tit. He could smell the wet heat of her sex wafting up from between her thighs like a heavy exotic perfume; feel her arousal rising steadily to a boiling point as he moved with torturous slowness toward the strawberry pink tip at her breast’s center.
“Not yet. Patience, my angel.”
Using the barest tip of his tongue, Skriker licked wet, tight circles around her areola, teasingly close to the turgid bud at its center. Rose trembled, panting, begging, reaching between her thighs to rub and massage her clit where it peeked eagerly out above her aching labial lips. He reached down and gently forced her hand away, chuckling lightly at her whining, disappointed cry. “Don’t want to spoil the ending, do you, baby? Now, then…”
He licked her nipple, blew on it gently. She moaned deliriously, shuddering as he finally drew the hard pink bullet into his mouth, sucking deeply and flicking it with his tongue while massaging her breast with increasing firmness. He sucked harder, grinding the turgid bud with his lips, applying a sweet, agonizing pressure that nearly drove her mad. She twisted and writhed beneath him, humping her wet pussy against his rippling belly as he moved to her other breast and gave it the same treatment. Soon he was licking her tits all over, slow, wet, unhurried strokes, his tongue lapping, tasting the sweet musk of her skin, the salt of her sweat.
“Ohhh, Skrike,” she panted. “Skrike, you fucking dog…”
She tossed her head, gasping as he slipped a hand between her thighs, his callused fingers caressing those warm rosy lips. She arched her back and whimpered as two of those fingers pushed into her cunt, probing with skill, bringing her to a knife’s edge and then backing off, leaving her gasping. He bent over her as he finger fucked her, his face hovering near hers, his breath a ragged moth’s whisper against her skin. Soon she was pleading, and his fingers were slippery wet with her eager fluids when he finally pulled them out of her hungry breach and mounted her again, his cock rubbing against her sticky-wet nether mouth, its head tingling as it brushed against the prickle of pubic hair surrounding the puckering entrance to her hungry cavern. Rose gasped and twisted beneath him, her cheeks flushed, her legs encircling and tightening around his butt. He kneeled up, gripping his dick in his fist, and she moaned at the sight of him: that hard sculpted body shining in the firelight, the spiky hardcore aura of his ice-blond hair, those emerald devil’s eyes glinting in the hot bone-dry night.
“Beg for it,” he hissed, his fist working his thick pulsating rod, jerking it, and, God, she wanted it, wanted him. She wanted the sin of him, the luscious taboo of this Halfling scum plowing her precious angel’s depths and breaking all of Paradise’s fucking rules.
“Beg for it, Rosie. I won’t give it to you until you do, sweetness.”
“No,” he breathed, gripping her hips in both of his big rough hands. “You won’t. Not without me already inside you. Gimme that pussy, baby.”
Rose squealed as he pushed his cock in, penetrating hard and deep; he felt her arch up as he buried himself in her, felt her hands grope his back and lean muscular flanks and her thighs grip his hips as he lowered his weight onto her fully and began to thrust. Her twitching craving slit devoured his massive, plunging tool; hump after hump, he fed it to her. She bucked against him, wailing, her wet sex stretched wide around his thick slimy shaft as his pelvis pounded against hers. She thrust her hips upward, and if his rod had not been as long as it was, he would have been swallowed into her balls-deep. She screamed in a whirlwind of hot throbbing pain and rosy pleasure as he struck the mouth of her womb again and again, tossing her head wildly as he pistoned inside her, his breath coming in grunting gasps.
“Come, angel!” he hissed between clenched teeth, gripping her hips and rutting violently into her as he crested toward orgasm. “Come for your devil, Rose!”
Rose arched her back, snapping her hips up and raising her buttocks off the ground, and he felt the tight gripping tent of her vagina writhe and spasm around his fat snake as she came, her throaty cry of release rending the empty desert night. Skriker came seconds later, shooting a massive load. He plowed a few more hard, merciless thrusts into her, emptying his balls until there was nothing left to spurt, groaning her name. She collapsed back onto the damp sleeping bag, panting and sobbing, and he gathered her close, wrapping her in his sweat-slicked arms, kissing her with tenderness as she moved her hands languorously over his gleaming inked skin.
“I love you, Skrike,” she whispered against his lips.
“I love you, too, angel girl.”
“You’ll worship me forever, won’t you?”
He rocked her, nuzzling against her long neck. “Always and forever, baby. Just promise your demon man that you’ll never leave his side, no matter what Heaven preaches.”
She turned her head and kissed his strong, confident mouth, her fingertips tracing the smooth powerful line of his jaw.
“I couldn’t…you’re too good in bed.”
He chuckled, and all was well with the world, at least at that moment.
They rested only briefly, for soon the warm late spring air coaxed them to steamy action once again, and something of their sensual energy flooded into the night, bringing strange eyes out of the darkness to watch.
A single coyote stood in the scrub, just outside the reach of the firelight. It watched the lover’s spectacle, its murky yellow eyes gleaming in the scant light that reached them. After a few moments it turned and loped off into the darkness to wait.