Agood brownie never has sex with bad people.
But is burning children really that bad?I mean it’s not like it’s cannibalism.-Arienna
Chewing on my lip,I pacethesuite in my blue slip: bedroom, sitting room, bathroom.Bathroom, sitting room, bedroom.The creaking timber of the tree stayssilentundermy feet.But the thoughts in my headwon’tstop screaming.
Iammarried.
To the fairy king.
A warmonger.
A potential cannibal.
Who supposedly wantspeace.
And a puppy.
And who kisseslike hecan’texist without tasting me.
Confusion and conflictionbattle it outinside me.Iwantto believe he’sgood.Iwantto believe heisn’ta child-eating monster.
What I really want, though,isto have sex without my stupidconsciencegetting in the way.IcanpracticallyseeFabia’s eyes rolling around at that.
“He’s a warmonger, remember?”
That just meanshehasextensive experience ravaging people.
“Also a cannibal –”
So he knows how to eat.
“– who eats babies.”
Hecaneatthisbabe.
“There’s something seriously wrong with you.”
Uh, yeah, duh – I’m notcurrently getting my insides rearranged by my husband.
I wince.
Rearranged in the good way, obviously.Not in the “your intestines will be pulled out of your anus” way.Ew.Who’d even thought of that anyways?Whoever it was – they were the one who had something wrong with them.Not me.
Besides, Iam99% certain Nicholaswasjoking about the whole child slave labour stuff.I mean, really, whowantsto use children as slaves?They start off puny and weak.Then when they finally hit puberty andarecapable ofpackingon muscle, they become, well,teenagers.
No.
No one in their right mind would ever think that was a good idea.Groups of teenagersarescary at the best of times.Give them all a reason to hate you, and I’m pretty sure your death would be counted as a suicide.
After all, thereisa reason no one wantsto foster them –even though that is what good brownies are supposed to do.It’s the number one reason people go to jail in Brownston.Though it’snotreally a big deal for said teens considering to get a house, as with everything else, all you have to do is ask someone for theirs.
Walking back into the bedroom, I stop at the foot of the bed.My cheeks heat as I imagine firm abs and hard hands crawling all up my body.My fingers trail across my throat.My pussy clencheswith need.
It’sbeenweekssince I’vebeen laid.Almost a year since I’veexperienced an orgasm through someone else’s doing.Surely, that justifiessleeping with a mass murderer?
I mean, the men in Fabia’s romance booksaren’texactly honourable either.In fact, they’reeven worse than Richard.Theydon’tjust burn babies; they know how many dead ones ittakesto fill a bathtub.Thirty-four.As well as the amount needed if the babiesareblended first.Fifty-two and a half.They kill and ravage anddoso many unspeakable things all to get their woman back.And she’s rarely everinany actualdanger consideringshe often endsupadding her kidnappers to herharem afewchapters later.
So really, when compared to the love interests inFabia’sbooks, Richardisa flippin’ saint.
