AllFreeNovel
Share Us
After we were rescued and I had my own room, I began to learn my sexual responses. I allowed myself to draw out my pleasure with soft, grazing touches that built to a crescendo.
Now? I just want to get the job done without getting caught or drawing attention.
I dip my knees, cup my balls, curl my hand around my shaft, and stroke. It feels so good my eyes flutter closed. My body’s been desperate for this since before Cally trespassed. After I got a whiff of her, laid my hands on her, the insistent biological need has increased to monumental proportions.
My strokes quicken as I envision her face. Was it real, or just wishful thinking that she looked as though she welcomed my touch as my hands slid up her jean-clad legs? In my erotic fantasy, her hazel eyes are filled with desire for me.
My breathing increases and my awareness narrows from the calling of birds in the nearby trees and the breeze on my face and the smell of the loam under my hooves. I’m aware only of my cock, my hand, and the increasingly sexual pictures of Cally that I’m creating in my head.
Without my permission, I bugle. I’ve seen dozens of videos of this behavior. Heard the astonishing, plaintiff scream of elk males in rut. How I produce the sound escapes me. One thing is certain. It can’t be controlled.
Turning my back on the hut so if Cally opens the door she won’t catch me in the middle of pleasuring myself, I quicken my pace. Beads of sweat pop on my forehead as I grasp tighter and move faster without thinking about anything other than how amazing it feels.
My muscles seize as a wave of pleasure ripples through me, culminating in a mind-numbing shudder followed by a flood of warmth that relieves the worst of my desperation. My release splatters on the fallen leaves covering the ground.
After taking one deep breath, I kick decomposing foliage over the evidence of my shame and glance toward the cabin. We’ll be sleeping there together tonight. It will be our shelter, however fraught with danger or untapped desires it may be.
It’s a good thing we have a rope.
Chapter Eleven
Cally
I’m pretty sure I know what he’s doing out there. If his admission that he’s in rut wasn’t enough of a clue, the humongous monster lurking under his shorts was a dead giveaway. If I wanted, I could glance out the front window to confirm my suspicions, but that would be a rotten thing to do.
Perhaps what I’m doing is worse, though. I’m picturing it. He’s not fully human, so I’m uncertain what, exactly, an elk-man cock would look like. I just imagine it as being big. Almost obscene.
I watch in my mind’s eye as he strokes and pulls and tugs. A feral bugle piercing the quiet of the woods takes my lusty imaginings to a new level as his hand tightens and speeds up.
“Calliope Quinn. Stop it right now,” I scold myself as I pace to the kitchen to explore, trying to pull my thoughts away from what Sylas is doing not twenty paces from the front door.
The cupboards are fully stocked for a gourmet meal. It’s hard to believe the Army would provide such quality food. This makes me wonder how—and why—the splicers were made.
That thought makes me shiver. The idea of people being made instead of born takes cruelty to a whole new level. The thought sours my stomach.
To shake the thought from my mind, I open the upper cabinets and rummage. Canned ham, chicken, and tuna. Pack after pack of shelf-stable bacon. Capers, olives, oil, three kinds of vinegar, and pasta of every sort from orzo to lasagna noodles.
Celery leaves are poking from the top of Sylas’s backpack, which is lying on the bar separating the kitchen from the great room. When I inspect further, I see an onion, red and green peppers, and lettuce.
I chop vegetables for pasta primavera. I’ll make it cold with a vinaigrette dressing. When Sylas returns, if he doesn’t like that idea, we can use the veggies for something else.
He opens the door so quietly I wouldn’t have known he’d done so except for Tater’s excited chuff. Has Sylas not only enchanted me, but is he stealing my dog’s affection, too? Has Tater decided the elk-man isn’t an enemy? I’ll have to remind the dog that the elk-man threatened to kick him into the next county only a few hours ago.
Sylas avoids looking at me, which confirms my suspicions about what he was doing out there.
“How do you feel about pasta primavera?”
“Uh. I’m not familiar. I don’t eat meat.”
Interesting juxtaposition of incongruity. A vegetarian supersoldier. On second thought, elks are herbivores. I guess it makes sense.
“Pasta and veggies with oil and vinegar.”
“Sounds great.” He keeps his head down as he hurries to what I assume is the bathroom in the only private area of the hut. “Taking a shower,” he calls over his shoulder.
I’m Calliope Quinn, author of one of the oddest coffee table books to make it to number one in its category on Amazon. Half my head is shaved, the other contains long, dyed burnt-orange hair. The style and color look striking on me, if I do say so myself. All that is to say that I’m odd, a rebel, and outspoken to a fault. I have no desire to allow an elephant to occupy this room.
Before Sylas slips into the john, I call, “It’s okay, you know.”
