I’m not sure how he’s gotten in before, but I’ve never locked him out. He’s never had to be so polite.
Well, aside from the front door, I suppose. Maybe I should ask.
I open the door, and the question immediately leaves me as I stare up at Atticus. Dark eyes, hungry expression, purple-tipped fingers.My Atticus.
“Hello,” I breathe, feeling each breath leave me in a huff.
“Corculum,” My Atticus greets. A slightly misshapen grin shapes his lips as he takes a step forward, forcingmea step back. “Locking of doors?”
I can’t help but flush a little, my hands wringing together at my navel. “Sorry. I was keeping my mom out.”
“Mom,” he says, as if he’s trying the word out for the first time.
“Don’t worry, she’s not home,” I assure him, though I’m not certain why. Whoever orwhateverMy Atticus is, I doubt he cares about parents. “We’re alone.”
“Alone?” he repeats, his grin widening into something promising and deadly.
“Y-yes.”
My Atticus takes another step, and then another, backing me up until I fall straight onto my ass on the edge of my bed. One of his hands, featuring those discolored fingers, reaches out and runs through my hair.
I can’t help it—I lean into his touch, savoring it, even as it’s so cold it nearly stings.
“So warm,” he mumbles, digging blunt fingernails into my scalp. “Tam bene gustabis.”
I stare up at him, letting the distorted sound of his voice coat me like a warm blanket on a dreary night. But then I catch sight of his wrist, and I’m snatching it up before I can think twice.
“Your wrist! What happened?” I gasp, staring at the harsh red line circling it, and at how parts of the skin have broken to ooze a little stream of blood.
“Shh,corculum,”he croons. “All is well. Lay.”
I only hesitate for a moment, concerned for his well-being, before my own desire takes over and I lie back on my bed, resting my head on the pillows.
My Atticus crawls over me, his frost-bitten skin grazing my bare thighs, making me shiver deliciously. He drops soft kisses to my stomach, his chest rubbing me over my briefs in a way that has me panting.
Once he gets to my face, he stares at me for a moment, assessing. “Like clouds, your eyes. Like rain will fall.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, my chest rising so rapidly it brushes into his with every pull of air.
Instead of answering with words—the man towering above me so domineeringly that hetrulydoes embody Atticus—replies with his hands.
He grips me roughly through my briefs, pulling a loud mewl from my mouth as I arch into him, desperate for friction. For his touch. Forhim.
“I’ll finish you,” he promises, “and then you will do for me.”
“I g-get to make you come?” I push out around grunts, rubbing against him shamelessly.
“Non, Cameron. You will do other things.”
The pleasure at the base of my spine is building embarrassingly fast tonight, and My Atticus seems to sense this, rubbing me faster, harder, tighter.
“You will go to his home,” he murmurs against my neck.
“Who’s home?” I pant, my brain only half working.
“The one you love. The one you crave.”
Here is what I know about the man above me: he has somehow managed to appear in Atticus’s form, just ascommanding and beautiful. Healwaysmakes me come, as if the entire reason he’s entering my house is to do just that, and somehow, there is some part of the real Atticus inside.
