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“Now?” I whisper.
He releases me, the grin on his features wicked. “You have a head start. After a count of ten, I’ll give chase and I won’t even use the tentacles.”
“Wait.” My voice trembles, because my clit still throbs from last night’s pussy whipping. “What happens if I get away?”
“Then you get to ride me like a cowgirl,” he says with a broad grin as though he’s drawing on one of Mr. Roberts’s memories.
“And if you catch me?”
“Then I’ll fuck you in all holes until you’re howling my name. Countdown starts now!”
My heart jolts into action, powering my feet. I race down the hallway and up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. The wood creaks underfoot, causing an awful ruckus, but I quicken my pace.
For the first time ever, I try the door of Mr. Roberts’s apartment. It’s open, and I step inside. What I see next makes my jaw drop. He’s arranged it into an open-plan living room and kitchen with polished wood floorboards and designer furniture in multiple shades of gray.
Dozens of my watercolors hang on the pristine white walls, providing vibrant displays of color. My paintings are abstract, mostly reflecting dreams and snatches of my imagination, but the way he’s displayed them makes my knees buckle.
“Ready or not,” my mate roars. “Here I come!”
I’m still too awed by the beautiful surroundings to register his words. There’s a silver rug on the floor that looks like it’s come straight from a magazine and delicate lights that hang from the ceiling like fallen stars.
How much of this luxury apartment did Mr. Roberts finance with money he made from stealing my art?
Strong arms wrap around my waist and pull me into his chest.
“Shit,” I shriek, my heart jumping into my throat. “That’s the shortest ever countdown.”
“Got you,” he growls, his appendages encasing my entire body like a cocoon.
“You said you wouldn’t use your tentacles.”
He presses his lips on the side of my neck, sending tiny implosions of pleasure across my skin. “I said I wouldn’t use them to catch you,” he murmurs into my curls. “Now that you’re caught, I can do whatever I please.”
I squeeze my thighs together, trying to staunch a surge of arousal at the prospect of getting fucked with my mate’s hard cock.
“Do you know what to do?” I ask.
“The man whose knowledge I absorbed watched hours of pornography,” my mate murmurs. “I’m surprised human women can climax from a partner with only two hands, a tongue, and a cock.”
“They’re probably faking it for the camera.”
He huffs a laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”
My mate carries me through the apartment like I’m his quarry. As we pass a kitchen of white units and black marble worktops, the resentment I’m holding evaporates in the heat of his body. My days of loneliness and poverty are over. This place, along with the entire building, now belongs to my mate.
He continues up a floating staircase to the apartment’s upper level, and into a luxury bedroom that looks like something out of a hotel. My breath catches, but my mate only seems interested in pressing a tentacle between my thighs.
“Do you have a name?” I ask, not knowing what to howl when we’re fucking.
“Outside, I’ll use Gordon Roberts, but when we’re alone, I want you to call me Mate.”
“Why?”
“Because I might have the body of a human but my soul belongs to you.”
My heart melts as his tentacles unfasten my barista apron. The fabric drops to the floor with a gentle thud.
When he doesn’t slip his tentacles beneath the rest of my clothes, I ask, “You’re not tearing it off?”
