“Watch me,” Mona Lisa said in soft command to her Demon Prince. Leaning over, with her breasts suspended over Gryphon, she began kissing her way down his chin, his throat, the upper pectoral swell, the hard, flat abdomen, and what lay against it in quivering attention.
She kissed her way down the length of his penis, one hand cupping and squeezed his balls, while the other grasped his twitching staff and held it still as she put her mouth over the tip, letting her soft breath caress him for a torturous moment of strung-out anticipation.
“Mona Lisa . . .” Gryphon spoke her name in a rough, needy groan.
In reward, her tongue flicked out and licked the fluid that had gathered at the tip. Eyes fastened on Halcyon, Mona Lisa delicately licked her way around the entire head until she came to the sensitive under-ridge and laved it with attentive care, probing there until Gryphon’s hips arched up involuntarily. She slipped her mouth down over him for a briefly blissful sucking second, then released him, pinning down his hips with both hands. “Uh-uh. No moving until I tell you to,” she chastised gently.
Her eyes flicked back up to her Demon Lord. “Up on the bed by the pillows, Halcyon. I want you to have a good view.”
“As my lady commands,” Halcyon murmured, moving with catlike grace onto the bed, his dark eyes growing even more brilliant and intent as Mona Lisa swung her leg over Gryphon, straddling him. Using one hand to position him, she sank down on him in a hot, wet glide.
“Sweet Goddess of Light,” Gryphon said, his voice taut and strained as Mona Lisa began to glow. “So tight . . .”
Mona Lisa didn’t rush it. Just let her weight slowly sink her down, watching Halcyon, whose dark, glittering eyes focused on where Gryphon penetrated her, disappearing inch by inch.
Mona Lisa couldn’t see it, but she could feel it, imagine it: Gryphon’s thick length slowly spearing into her. Her own inner muscles tightly surrounding, engulfing him, swallowing him up until their mounds met.
She lifted herself steadily back up as if she were riding a carousel horse, rising almost to the end of his pole, feeling the hard slide of him out. Slowly impaling herself on him back down. But at the end of this cycle, instead of rising up, she leaned back until her spine brushed against Gryphon’s thighs, bending his rigid staff at an acute angle, and rode him this way so that she could see now as well. So all of them, Halcyon and Gryphon and herself, could watch the hard, wet glide of him pushing into her and coming back out, hear the wet, sucking sound they made as his cock entered and exited, feel the angled tension of him rub and pull against her tight sheath.
“Move, Gryphon. Now,” she gasped, quivering, and felt him take over the movement, the rhythm, driving harder, faster, into her. She closed her eyes, remembering the visual image coupled with the physical sensation of his glistening cock disappearing into her, both of their bodies lit, shining. . . Sweet Goddess, indeed. She wasn’t going to last long.
“Halcyon . . . please,” she cried, wanting both of them in her when she went. “Join us.”
He moved so fast she didn’t see him, one moment on his knees against the headboard, the next moment standing there beside them.
“Open your mouth,” Halcyon said harshly, his hands fisting in her hair.
Mona Lisa parted her lips and he pushed his way in. Sweet bliss.
She licked, sucked hungrily as Halcyon pumped in and out of her mouth, humming blissfully at the taste and feel of both of them within her.
Halcyon pulled out and was suddenly behind her, pushing her gently forward, down over Gryphon’s chest. Gryphon lifted his head and took her mouth in a hot, raw kiss as she felt the tip of Halcyon’s cock push into her from behind.
Gryphon’s tongue speared into her mouth at the same time Halcyon entered her anus, and then they were both fucking her in slow, gentle push-pull rhythm, perfectly coordinated, in and out. In and out.
Mona Lisa felt Halcyon’s phantom hands caress her breast, squeeze her nipples, stroke with devilish lightness over the nub between her wet, parted folds. Clever, invisible fingers tugging, pulling, stroking, and caressing her, feeling as real as the two hard cocks surging into her like dueling swords, rubbing alongside each other separated only by a thin layer of tissued membrane.
They increased their speed, their harmonized tempo, and everything built and tightened and tensed within her.
Mona Lisa broke their kiss as she felt Gryphon’s teeth lengthen and sharpen, knew with a thrill the bloodlust he was feeling, felt a surprisingly corresponding need to be marked and pierced by those very teeth—something she had missed more than she knew.
Gryphon’s rhythm suddenly faltered.
“No, it’s okay. I want it,” she said in hasty reassurance, pulling his mouth to her breast, reaching back with her other hand to guide Halcyon’s head to her neck. “Bite me, both of you. Drink my blood.”
They didn’t wait for a second invitation. Two sets of fangs pierced her.
They drank down her blood and thrust themselves inside her, driving themselves so deep and full within her. That the pleasure culminated and exploded in a visually blinding brilliant pulse of light. She convulsed. Felt the milking clench of her sheath and tightening of her sphincter set off their own spasming release.
“God,” Mona Lisa gasped as she felt the withdrawal of their fangs, leaving behind a pleasant throbbing ache on her breast and neck. She twitched as she felt the twin laving of tongues over the puncture wounds, enhancing the tremors still running through her.
A heavy shiver as she felt Halcyon pull out of her. Another shudder as he lifted her off Gryphon and lay her down on the bed between them.
Three-way cuddling, Mona Lisa found, was nice.
Very, incredibly nice indeed.
TWENTY-TWO
THE DAY OUR world irrevocably changed began as a typical evening, breaking fast together with a main meal and then dispersing to our varied duties and chores, which for me was my two-hour practice session with the Morells.
Thaddeus was the one who brought it to our attention when we returned back to the house. “Hey, guys,” Thaddeus called out from the living room. “Come here. You have to see this.”
I stepped inside to see my brother glued to the television. The scene playing on it was indeed riveting: a news report of a tall apartment complex going up in flames. The caption Breaking News flashed along the bottom of the screen.
“It looks like a fire,” I said, wondering what all the fuss was. “Is it local?”
“No. In Washington, DC, in one of the slum neighborhoods,” Thaddeus said, raptly watching the news. “Wait, this is what I wanted you to see.”
And the reason for his interest suddenly became clear as a man came crashing through a window near the top floor. No, not a man, I realized as wings spread out in magnificent display. A Monère. Caught on film!
His arms—only his arms—were shifted into feathered wings. Wings that were burning, caught on fire. Clinging to the male was a teenage girl wearing pajamas, coughing but otherwise seeming unharmed.
The reporter gave a startled cry. “What in the world . . . are you getting this?”
The cameraman’s excited affirmative was heard.
They flew for a moment, gracefully suspended in the air, an incredibly dramatic picture as the flames spread rapidly to the Monère’s shirt, burning along his back, highlighting the man, his beating wings sharply outlined against the darkening night sky.
You could hear a faint cry as the flames reached his neck, and the girl let go, dropping away from him, falling, plummeting, her sleeves caught on fire.
There were gasps, cries of dismay from the news crew, from the crowd below. Then even more startled cries as the winged man rushed down after her in a hard swoop. The girl plummeted a sickening distance before the male caught her, shifting his wings in midflight back to arms. Burning feathers disappeared and became seared skin, his clothes licked bright with orange flames. Holding her tight against him, they dropped in freefall the last fifty feet.