Alexandra Vance. the Beast’s Attraction.
Copyright© 2026 by Virael de la Fer
Chapter 9: The morning doesn’t start with coffee...
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 9: The morning doesn’t start with coffee... - She just wanted a drive to clear her head. Instead, she hit a wolf on a lonely forest road — and made the mistake of getting out of the car. He wasn't an ordinary wolf. And nothing in her life was ever ordinary again. A sensual paranormal romance about desire, danger, and falling for something wild.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Fairy Tale Mystery Paranormal Were animal Sharing Humiliation Rough Gang Bang Group Sex Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory Double Penetration Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Voyeurism AI Generated
Alexandra was dreaming. Not the kind of dream that sinks its fangs into your mind and won’t let go until morning—this one was different. Gentle. The kind that lulls, rather than haunts.
She lay on her side on the shore of a warm, caressing sea. The sand beneath her, baked by the day’s sun, now lazily returned its heat to her skin, moulding itself to every curve of her body as if it had been sculpted just for her.
She wore nothing. Not a single scrap of fabric—only her nakedness felt completely natural here, devoid of any shame. Not like in the human world. Simpler. Righter.
The sea breeze embraced her all at once—gliding over her collarbones, coiling around her ribs, tangling in her hair, sliding down along her spine to where her back ended. Warm waves rolled in leisurely, almost reluctantly, brushing against her toes before retreating, as if breathing in time with her. Each time they pulled back, they took something with them—lingering anxiety, unspoken fears, the weight of recent days—and left nothing in return but silence.
Her skin was warm—from the sun, and from the fact that someone was near. She couldn’t see his face. Only his silhouette against the light: broad shoulders, the calm, confident set of his head, a shadow that, for some reason, didn’t frighten her at all. On the contrary. There was something so fundamentally reliable about him that she wanted to close her eyes and let that warmth stay a little longer.
She felt his gaze before his touch—as if the air between them was alive, taut, ready to hum at the slightest movement. And when his hand finally settled on her waist, Sasha realised: this dream was no ordinary dream. It was too warm. Too real. Too much.
His palm rested on her skin with a heavy, assured weight, as if it had always been there. His fingers—broad, with sharply defined knuckles, rough from invisible callouses—moved upward slowly, almost lazily, tracing each curve of her ribs as if memorising her body, determined never to forget it.
She didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t want to. There was nothing in this dream worth changing: only warmth, only silence, only his fingers, which had now reached her breast. They settled over her gently—not squeezing, not gripping, just covering her, and she felt her heartbeat beneath his palm, faster than it should have been, as if it knew he was there, beside her, and beat for him alone.
Her nipple responded instantly—swelling, hardening, and a shiver, like an electric current, raced through her, while the wave born deep in her abdomen spread through her body, making her muscles relax even more, her thighs parting just slightly as if her body itself begged for more.
His hand slid lower—over her stomach, into the dip where her skin was thinnest—then paused on her thigh. His fingers pressed into the soft flesh, squeezing slightly, as if testing whether she was real. Or still a dream. Sasha felt her own body respond—leaning forward, lifting slightly, opening to him.
Then he leaned in.
His hot breath touched her neck—not burning, no, more like seeping under her skin, like steam, like the humid air before a storm. She couldn’t see his face, but she felt it—he was smiling. Not mockingly. Almost tenderly. And that smile needed no sight to be understood.
His lips touched her shoulder—lightly, almost imperceptibly, and Sasha shuddered all over, as if struck by a current, and then his hand, the same one that had rested on her thigh, moved slowly—so slowly that each second stretched into eternity—between her legs.
She didn’t resist. She waited. And when his fingers covered the hottest, wettest, most alive part of her, Sasha understood: the dream was beginning to unravel. Like morning mist thinning, letting the sunlight through.
But she didn’t want to wake up.
His fingers moved unhurriedly—in circles, pressing, releasing, touching again—and each movement echoed inside her with a dull, pulsing resonance. Sasha could hear the man breathing heavily above her, how his rhythm faltered, becoming as ragged as her own. She felt her body responding to every touch, filling with heat, her inner muscles clenching in anticipation, and that heat was no longer part of the dream.
It was real.
“Sasha,” a voice exhaled beside her ear. Not a growl. Not a moan. Just her name. Simply—her name, spoken as if it were the only word that mattered.
And in that moment, his fingers withdrew—and she had just enough time to feel a sudden emptiness, sharp as a needle’s prick, a chill, confusion—before his hot, hard flesh touched her entrance. Not entering. Just touching. Teasing. Promising. Letting her decide.
Sasha didn’t think.
She arched back—toward where his body was solid, muscular, immense—and he slid into her. Smoothly. Unhurriedly. Without jolts. Gliding, like a wave that had finally reached the shore and dissolved into the sand, filling her completely from within.
The sensation was overwhelming. Not from pain, no—from fullness. From how he filled her inside, how he stretched her, how his heat merged with her own, how their breaths synchronised as if they had always done this. Forever.
Sasha moaned—softly, through her teeth, almost soundlessly—but he heard. His hand settled on her stomach, pulling her closer, and his hips began to move. Not fast. Not aggressively. Deeply, steadily, like the tide—entering and retreating, leaving her with the feeling that she was dissolving. That there was no longer a boundary between them. That her body was his body. That they breathed the same air, shared the same blood.
She no longer knew if she was dreaming.
His fingers found her clitoris again—and stroked in time with his movements, and every touch sent a new spark, a new shudder, a new gasp through her. She felt her inner muscles clenching around him, how they refused to let go, how they pulled him deeper, harder, more demandingly.
And he sped up. Just slightly. But it was enough for the wave that had been building inside her since the dream began to rise all the way to her throat.
“Sasha,” he whispered again, and his voice trembled.
She felt it before she realised: inside her, everything tightened, ignited, spread like fire, and she arched her back, digging her fingers into the sand—or the sheet, or his hand—no longer knowing where the dream ended and reality began. The orgasm washed over her not like an explosion, but like a tide. Like a sea that had finally claimed her entirely.
And in that same instant, the dream burst.
Like a soap bubble. Like morning mist.
Sasha opened her eyes.
The ceiling. Pale morning light seeping through the poorly drawn curtains. The sheet beneath her was tangled into a lump, her fingers still clenched it in a death grip, and her breathing couldn’t steady itself—she was still panting as heavily and raggedly as in the dream.
And beside her—his body. Hot, solid, pressed against her back. His hand still rested on her thigh. His breath still touched her neck. And she could feel his cock, wet with her juices, coming out of her and pressing against her buttocks.
“You’re back,” he said softly, a little hoarsely, and Sasha realised: he knew. He had seen that she was asleep. That she had been there, in that world. And that he had been with her.
She didn’t answer. She simply turned toward him—slowly, still not fully awake—and looked into his amber eyes. There was no mockery in them. No triumph. Only a tired, warm, almost vulnerable tenderness.
“That was a dream,” she said aloud, but her voice sounded uncertain.
“No,” he smirked, pulling her to him and kissing her temple. “This is only the beginning.”
I slowly turned toward him, still feeling the last haze of the dream fading away. His hands rested on my hips, scorching hot, as if they still held the remnants of the night’s heat, and I watched as the sunlight gilded his skin, tracing every muscle, every hollow, settling on his cheekbones, his collarbones, the relief of his chest.
I sat astride him, refusing to let him slip out of me. His cock pulsed inside me, as if beating in time with my own heart. Slowly, smoothly, feeling how he stayed inside, how his hardness filled me to the very depths, and every movement made me catch my breath with pleasure.
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