He does it over and over, getting me so close that I forget language. Books. Words. I forget thoughts, and that anything before or after this moment exists.
A year passes.
Then another.
Decades roll by.
I die and am born again.
Every time it happens, every time he takes me to the edge and retrieves me unbroken, he smiles as if he likes me very much and his deep, rumbling alpha voice soothes parts of me I didn’t know needed soothing. “Good boy.”
I can’t respond verbally because I’m garroted by pleasure, but eventually, my need becomes so great that I beg for what I need with my eyes.
Because he’s in my body, in my mind, he understands that I’ve reached my limit a millisecond before it happens.
“You’re going to come this time,” he tells me, and I nod feverishly, whimpering in gratitude. “But here’s the thing, littlemouse…” His voice deepens and begins to vibrate. It pierces old parts of me that have been hurt before and sews them back together. “I want you to come harder than ever.”
He pulls his hand back, almost withdrawing from me completely, meeting my gaze and giving me a small, almost imperceptible nod when the peak that exists inside me has morphed into a blade that could cut through ice.
Then he thrusts into me so hard it draws a soft grunt from him.
My spine arches. Every joint in my body contracts. A blinding stream of blistering pleasure blasts out of me. It pours. Shooting and spraying, burning through things that have bothered me in the past, leaving me shaking. Naked. And new.
21
Jensen
It’sbeenalong,strange week. One that’s brought with it a new normal. One that’s so different from my old life that it’s hardly recognizable. The lord is everywhere all the time. He’s been spending so much time in the library that I’ve started putting him to work. He’s been helping me catalog books in the mornings, and at lunchtime, we eat together.
On nice days, we head into the garden and sit in a sunny spot near the rose garden. When it’s grotty outdoors, we eat in the orangerie. Sometimes we talk, and sometimes we sit quietly, watching raindrops land on the skylight above us.
In the afternoons, I read to him, and he makes me tea when my throat goes dry. Every day, he sets the tray, steeps the tea, and pours it for me himself, stirring in exactly the right amount of lemon and honey. He doesn’t allow Mrs. Thompson or Sid to help him with it, much to their bewilderment. Every day, I find Mrs. Thompson’s reaction to the situation a little funnier, and I think he does too. He looks at me as she trots at his heel,chattering about being done out of a job, and presses his lips together a little tighter than usual to stop himself from laughing.
Generally, I take my tea with a mind-bending orgasm.
In the evenings, things seem to slow down. He still chases me sometimes, but we’ve started watching murder mysteries on TV and chatting late into the night.
I wake early most mornings to watch him dance with Gregor, and when I see him at breakfast, I still give him a surreptitious little sniff to be sure he’s taken his medication. Every morning, the result is the same. He smells like nothing. Absolutely nothing. No alpha musk. No masculine pheromones or heat. Nothing. Just plastic with a nice personality.
Yet, something has changed. When I get into my nest, I feel almost like I did when I first got here. Not homesick exactly because I don’t think about home with longing or want to be there specifically, but the emotion is similar. An unpleasant ache finds its way into my bones when I turn off the light, the darkness denser and more far-reaching than it should be. I curl into a ball, arranging pillows and blankets as close to me as possible, but no matter what I do, I can’t find a comfortable spot. No matter how I lie, or how I build my nest, it feels too big. Too empty.
It’s completely ridiculous because I literally have company all day, but when I get into bed, I feel lonely. A pang wraps around my ribcage, and despite how tight it makes my lungs, I feel hollow.
I feel lots of other things too. Happy and sad for no reason. Frustrated, even though I’ve had a wonderful day. Ridiculously excited for the sun to come up and for a new day to dawn. Confused because none of this makes sense.
Every night, as I lie in the dark, I remind myself that it’s impossible to have a crush on a man I’ve never scented. I remind myself that it’s not how things work. Attraction andcompatibility are determined by scent. That’s a fact. Everyone knows that.
As the days have worn on, the nights have gotten darker, heavier, and are laden with a murmur of dread. The murmur started quietly. So softly it was hardly a thought. Barely a threat. An almost imperceptible wondering, more than anything concrete.
Has he ever thought about going off his suppressant?
If he had a deep connection with someone, would he consider it?
Would he stop his treatment for a day, an hour, a few minutes, to scent someone if he thought they might be the one?
These thoughts, and others like them, have grown louder each night, and each night I wish I had the courage to ask him about it.
With each passing day, a grim, yet simple realization hits me a little harder—I’m not someone who’s built for casual sex.
