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“Maybe you should do something about it.”
His deep chuckle makes all the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “Naughty girl,” he says. “Wanting me to neglect your injuries to give you pleasure.”
When he pulls his hand away and returns to healing the cut, my throat catches with a sob. He’s getting so close to my pussy that my skin shivers with each of his outward breaths.
The thumb of the hand holding me open is so dangerously close to my knicker elastic that he could cut it open with one snap of his claws.
“Please,” I say, my breath hitching. “Please, hurry.”
“I won’t touch you until you’re fully healed,” he growls.
Frustration heats my furnace to the point of explosion. I reach down between my legs, but something cool wraps around my wrist and pins it to the mattress.
“What was that?” I ask with a gasp.
“You’re too eager,” he says. “I have to hold you down with my shadows to stop aggravating your wounds.”
I choke a sob. “But—”
“Alienor,” he says, sounding unusually stern. “I want you strong and well enough to take everything I will give you. And believe me, you will take it like a good girl.”
“Do you promise?” I whisper.
His grin is wolfish, and the golden flecks in his eyes shine brighter. “I guarantee it.”
The pulse behind my clit beats faster, and the muscles of my pussy squeeze hard enough to hurt. If he doesn’t hurry, I won’t have to worry about these wounds splitting open because my arousal burns hot enough to reduce me to ash.
ChapterThirty-Three
HENRY
Alienor’s desperate mewling goes straight to my cock, which aches and strains against the mattress. I should not take advantage of her vulnerable state, but her flesh is too tempting to resist.
For three years I watched over her while she slept. Three years of pleasuring myself with her underwear. Three years of trying to break through the protective magic separating her from my claws. Three years of longing to bury myself into her beautiful body.
And it’s now inches away from my tongue, laid out like a banquet for a king.
Alienor squirms within the shadowy restraints as my tongue rubs circles closer and closer toward her clothed sex.
She bucks her hips, her legs so spread wide that concentration becomes impossible. Her underwear is soaked. Drenched. Rendered translucent by her arousal.
I see every detail of her pretty little sex through the thin wet fabric, from her petals to her swollen pearl. I lick a slow circle over the cut on her inner thigh, my nostrils filling with her delicious scent.
“Please,” she cries, her voice hoarse. “Touch me.”
Unfortunately, the cut ends half an inch from the fabric of her underwear, and I cannot continue.
I draw back to survey her other leg for cuts when Alienor groans.
“You can’t stop there,” she says. “I need more.”
The desperation in her voice goes straight to my cock, making all four heads swell to the point of agony.
I want to give her what she needs and more. I want to tear off that thin scrap of fabric and feast on her sweet nectar. I want to bury myself inside Alienor and pound into her until my ears ring with her pleasured moans.
But she is still injured.
I force out a ragged sigh, wondering when Henry Curtmantle grew such an unwieldy conscience. It was probably around the time my wife brutally murdered a servant for trying to free me of her magic.
