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Would his fingers know how to get me worked up like this? Would he be curious about how to get me wet? Are his words just empty promises, or would he put me on the bed, spread my thighs wide, and kiss down my big, soft stomach, exploring me with that wicked tongue of his?
A pleasured squeak comes from my throat at the mental image, and I bury my face in the pillow. I feel my orgasm coming far faster than when I usually touch myself. Then again, I don’t typically have such striking, immediate inspiration.
I imagine Remus somewhere in the castle right now and wonder if he’s thinking of me. I imagine him in his bed right now. Is he nearby?
Is he. . . touching himself, too?
I bite the pillow, and my fingers slip down further toward the opening of my pussy. I imagine his huge body lifting over mine. Feeling his hardness against my flushed, wet flesh that’s so, so ready for him.
Is he imagining the same thing while he clutches his hand mercilessly around himself, heart-thumping as he milks himself to the thought of thrusting inside me?
“Remus,” I whisper-moan into the pillow and finger-fuck myself until I come.
I’m breathing so hard afterward, so awash with pleasure, I think I’ll never fall asleep. But after the wild release, barely pulling my fingers out of myself to rearrange the pillow, I’m out within minutes.
Chapter Eight
REMUS
I inhale the scent of her released desire from outside her room, every muscle straining to break down the door and burst into claim her.
My nose may not be as enhanced as my brothers’, but it’s still far superior to any mortals. I intended to simply walk past her room like a good boy. But who am I kidding? I’m not good and never have been.
And when the scent that hit the air when I whispered in her ear suddenly saturated the hallway outside of her door, there was no way not to stop. I lean my head against the wood of her door and inhale with all my might.
Only to hear her little squeal and realize, fuck, she’s pleasuring herself.
I’d riled her up, and she was finishing the job.
My hands clench into fists, and it takes discipline I rarely display to stay in place. I grind my teeth as Romulus threatens to burst awake and steal the moment from me. The bastard’s always taking advantage of any moment of surprise or stress.
I grab the flask from my hip and take a swig.
The salty, metallic liquid barely hits my throat before I feel the zing of clearer awareness, fully awake and back in full control of my own body again. I smile because I’ve never wanted to be present more as I lean against the door, inhaling and listening with my enhanced senses.
I stay there all the way until she gasps my name, and an extra flood of her scent hits me like a blast.
Then I stumble back from the door, overwhelmed with need. I turn and storm away silently.
But I won’t give myself the same relief. No, I want to linger at this knife’s edge of arousal until she screams my name while allowing me to pleasure her. Not just the thought of me.
I swing back around and reach for the doorknob, close, so close to shoving the door open and stomping inside.
But then I remember my previous experience with human females.
That is, my nonexistent experience.
It is not as if I haven’t wanted to lie with them before. But unlike many soldiers, I was always disgusted by the taking of females as plunders of war. And whores were so terrified by me, even if they’d take my coin, it immediately softened my cock.
The thought of a woman who gasps my name with pleasure instead of backing away from me in fear or disgust has me so hard. I did not shelter her from who I am, and still, she writhes at the thought of me on the other side of the door.
Silently, I press my palm to the cool wood, the rest of me all heat. She is a precious treasure, unlike any I have met.
But one must be careful with treasure, or it will break.
I must tread slowly.
As much as I hate it and as much as it is not in my nature, I must have patience.
