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You’re staying with me, I imagine snarling at her, standing at the end of her bed with one hand casually stroking the bare slick length of my member. I’d stroke it slow, saving the real friction-laced pumping for her wet slit. Now bend over and grab those juicy ass cheeks for me. Right now, Sadie.
“What do you think, boy?” I murmur, looking across the gym at Jasper, curled in a content ball in the corner.
He glances up and yawns, determinedly uninterested, and then lays his head on his paws.
“I know,” I mutter. “I’m starting to get tired of going around and around on the issue too, believe me. I guess I better go tell her though.”
I look away from Jasper as I say the last part, knowing he’ll be able to see through my tone.
As though I don’t want to see her again.
The world has fallen dark again, and I haven’t seen her since this morning. Each passing minute growing the tension inside of me.
Tic-tic-tic and each one bringing with it an increasing furor in my ears, a rising lust song that can’t be ignored.
Even if I know it must be ignored.
I grab a quick shower and change into a T-shirt and casual shorts, rolling my arms in my shoulders, jabbing at the air a couple of times to loosen myself up. Jasper has disappeared into the house somewhere, perhaps his bedroom in the north wing.
I check my phone and see that it’s eight o’clock, more than enough time. If I know Fiona and her Marchway friends, she’ll be out until one or two in the morning minimum, which means …
It means nothing, old man, I try to tell myself.
But I don’t feel old as I prowl through the night to her bedroom, through the shadows past suits of armor and weapons and ancient violent things, the sort of objects I’d have used to protect my queen once upon a time.
It’s not just lust, which would be bad enough.
It’s her spirit, her soul, her body, the shape of her hips, the reflected shape they form in my mind each time I consume her with my traitor’s gaze. It’s the shape that tells me I need to palm them and guide her, up and down, up and down on my slick length.
To make a child, our child.
Ah.
It hurts, thinking about it and not doing it. It aches with the force of my ancestors, which makes no sense, which I should find damn ridiculous. But it’s carnal, vital, something I can’t grasp.
All I know is the image of her cradling our newborn child to her chest fills me with something unspeakable, and yet something I need to fulfill.
I grit my teeth and I let out a long shivering snarl.
I standing outside her bedroom door. On the other side, music plays quietly. There are no lyrics, just horns and deep billowing voices moaning wordlessly.
I don’t have to clench my fist to knock. It’s been clenched all day since the near-kiss in the kitchen since I almost claimed her on the counter like the meal she is.
“Yes?” she calls.
“It’s me,” I say. “Saul.”
“Oh, um, come in.”
I open the door a crack.
“Wait,” she calls.
I can’t help but smirk. “You just said come in, Sparkplug. Which is it?”
“Yeah, I’m sort of not decent. Hang on.”
My member jerks and it’s almost like my seed develops speech. It tells me, “Okay, this is getting impossible to resist now. Just get in there and take her. When she’s saying things like that, goddamn beautiful sexy dirty things, what are you supposed to do? You’re a man, aren’t you? Your flesh and blood?”
I clench my fist harder on the handle, the cool metal biting. It doesn’t help. Nothing will help.
“Okay,” she says after a pause.
I push the door open to find her standing next to her desk, wearing pajama shorts that have me salivating and a tank top that’s even more prepossessing. I note that her bra strap is twisted, and I wonder if that’s what she meant by being sort of not decent.
For some reason, the thought of her fussing to put a bra on to make herself proper for me makes my cock somehow more rigid.
She’s wrapping herself up for me, the perfect Christmas present.
And I can’t wait to unwrap her.
“Fiona texted you,” I tell her. “And I’ve been charged with making sure you read them, all one million.”
She giggles sweetly. “What did she say?”
“She wants to know if you’re going to join her in Marchway with her friends.”
“Now?” she asks.
“I think so.”
I glance at the desk and see that it’s covered in college work, zoology textbooks, her laptop open on an academic journal article. Her notepad is bright with the reds and greens and pinks of her assorted pens.
“Why the colors?” I ask.
“I categorize the topics,” she says. “It just helps me to remember them.”
