Page 4
The crowd gasps. I hear old Mrs. Newman, who runs the East Gloaming Tiny Library, shriek something about the monster’s…arousal.
I blink up at him, taking in the texture of his fur, and the flare of his nostrils with each breath. A crack of lightning crisscrosses the clear sky.
“Did you do that?” I raise my nose upward as another crack of lightning overhead sends the crowd into panic.
He nods as I pull my lips against my teeth and survey the terrified townsfolk. “I like it. You do this with all your virgins, or am I special?”
“No.” He steps through the opening the crowd has made, some of them on their knees praying, a few of the husbands turning their wives away while a few of the other ladies are looking intently at whatever is going on under my ass. “You are special, Dolly. I have waited nine centuries for you. You are not like the others. You are mine.”
Cue internal screaming. And not the bad kind.
And the claws wrapped around my calf squeeze, the tips digging in and sending little zaps of pain upward.
I shiver at the sensation. But even as they scrape and poke, he draws no blood.
He won't hurt me.
“Look at these thighs. This ass. Your town has sent a goddess, not a sacrifice. They tied you up like an offering, but I see the truth. You’re a banquet. I want to taste every part and go back for seconds.”
As good as that sounds, I know this thing might not be speaking in metaphors right now. “This feast might bite back.”
“Good. I like a little fight. Makes the final surrender more satisfying.”
I’m about to sass about that whole surrender idea. Then his mouth is on me.
He seals it over the side of my throat and sucks hard enough to leave a mark the Methodist ladies will be discussing until Easter. I moan, embarrassing myself in front of half the PTA, but he growls and nuzzles deeper, like he likes the sound. Like it’s his favorite.
A dull thud sounds as Mrs. Newman hits the ground, unconscious. At the same moment, I feel something huge pressing up against my ass, and I’m reminded that all I’ve got there is a tiny black thong. I glance at the fainting old lady, then back to find his eyes intent on mine.
“You make that sound again,” he rasps, “and I’ll carry you into the woods and teach you how to scream.”
The reason Mrs. Newman swooned is making itself known down below. And I can’t blame her.
It’s thick. It nudges against the back of my thighs, hard and insistent.
I blink up at him. “Is that—?”
He growls. “It’s mine. And soon, it will be yours.”
Lord save me. It’s wiggling its way between my thighs. Wiggling. Prodding. Pushing. Insistent.
Then, it settles, and I swear the demon sighs as his arousal stills, sandwiched between my thick thighs, oh, and it has a pulse.
His snarl comes from above. “Your body will stretch for me. You will scream into the trees as I fill you until your body only remembers me.”
“You always talk like that? Like a poorly written comic book villain?”
His grip shifts, but he ignores my backhanded insult. We’re not at the edge of the ring of people, and my insides continue that completely inappropriate warm fluttering.
But I get the feeling that it’s us against them. And I’m on the right team.
He’s looking at my wrists as we walk. The rope rubbed them raw, two red bracelets I didn’t even feel until now.
“Who tied these knots?”
Nobody answers as the thing half pushed into the apex where my thighs meet swells and heats. My nipples draw tight. This isn't going at all as I’d imagined.
Mayor Prickle takes a sudden, deep interest in his clipboard.
