One of his hands finally slipped down under my panties on my hip, but he didn’t push them down. “Do you want to feel all of it? All of what you are capable of?”
I did want to feel it. I desperately needed it.
But my words couldn’t surface this time. I couldn’t beg him again. His power had bound me too tightly, and I was utterly and completely his.
Fear threatened to climb up into my consciousness.
He must have sensed it somehow. Grim cooed in my ear, “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
He held me there for minutes that seemed to span hours.
“You may touch yourself under the panties,” he said, finally pushing the lace down. Though I wasn’t restrained, it felt like it. Panties wrapped around my upper thighs, bra pushed down just under my breasts, his fingers digging into my hips. They felt as illicit as if he’d tied me up in rope.
My hand greedily hit the target, fingers pumping in and out. My cries increased as my pleasure did. On my tiptoes, I struggled to get my digits deep enough from my standing position, but Grim had wrapped his hands around my arms, holding me up against him, preventing me from going deeper.
I neared desperation, frantic for release. I was so close, yet so far from satisfaction, as my inner muscles clenched, wanting so much more.
Grim’s words reverberated in my head, near demonic whispers of sin and lust. “What you want—they named it after me. They call it le petite mort. The little death.” His lips curved against my neck in a wicked grin.
There was nothing little about what rioted through me, or the hardness pressed at my back, but I couldn’t form words, caught in Grim’s spell.
This bordered on torture, but part of me never wanted it to stop. I’d never been so inside of a moment. Time didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered except the feeling of my own skin.
“Vivien,” he said, in that low, near-animalistic growl. His desire pressed against my back.
I could only let out an incoherent “Ungh.” Perspiration covered my body and dampened my hair.
It did feel as though I were approaching some kind of death. On a precipice, part of me wanted to back away and regain control over my senses. But I’d handed all the control over to Grim and there was no going back.
Come, he commanded at last.
My orgasm hit me like a freight train. I’d already been running up to it, but bam. My body shuddered as it broke free of the near-agonizing buildup. Grim’s hand squeezed my arms like two vices as I bucked against him, keening and moaning.
“Good girl,” he said softly into my ear, as I sobbed from the relief.
It kept rolling through me, drenching my thighs, as my inner muscles clenched and spasmed.
Then his magic released me as I finished riding it out. Before I could collapse, he scooped me into his arms.
For the second time, I begged. “Please, fuck, I need you now. I need you inside me, please.” My voice shook, words nearly incoherent.
Crossing to the bed, he laid me down. When he covered me with his body, I found he’d shed the rest of his clothes. When had that happened? His rich-caramel colored skin pressed against mine, and nothing had ever felt so right. I ran my hands through his thick dark hair, already messy though he hadn’t fucked me yet.
Something sharp slid along the side of my ribcage. My bra loosened as he cut through it. I didn’t need to look to know his hand transformed into a black claw. They sliced through my panties next. I’d complained about losing all my underwear to his little shifter trick, since he could transform into an eight-foot, terrifying jackal monster—his god-likeness. But he got away with it by always supplying me with all the replacement lingerie I needed.
But I wasn’t going to complain about anything right now as the real monster, the one between his legs, brushed against my slick opening. His tip glistened with pent-up release. As much fun as he had, it must have been torture for him, too. When he pushed into me, my back arched as I struggled to take him all in.
Body already primed, I greedily wrapped my legs around him, embracing the pain and pleasure. My fingers raked down his straining triceps. I needed him to move, but he held back.
“I love you, Vivien,” he said. Some of his hair fell over his forehead, as he regarded me with almost painful devotion through honey-colored eyes. In that moment, I saw glimpses of a boy, desperate to be loved.
Though my heart was dead, I could have sworn it pumped a beat.
The words climbed up my throat, then a fist closed around it. Fear and uncertainty won yet again as it beat the words back down.
The little men who ran things in my brain popped up to see if there was anything they could do about it.
Sir, the system is flowing backwards. Should we push some buttons? Hit some levers? Do something to help her say it back?
