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"Mine," he growled, pounding into her.
And then he bit her.
Chapter Twenty-four
When John woke up, the first thought that went through his mind was that he wanted a hot-fudge sundae with bacon bits on top. Which was just nasty, really.
Except, damn... chocolate and bacon would be heaven right about now.
He opened his eyes and was relieved to be staring at the familiar ceiling of the room he slept in, but he was confused as to what had happened. It was something traumatic. Something momentous. But what?
He lifted his hand up to rub his eyes... and stopped breathing.
The thing that was attached to his arm was huge. A giant's palm.
He raised his head and looked down his body or... someone's body. Had he been a head donor sometime during the day? 'Cause sure as hell his brain hadn't been plugged into the likes of this before.
The transition.
"How you feel, John?"
He glanced toward Wrath's voice. The king and Beth were by the bed, looking utterly exhausted.
He had to concentrate to make his hands form the words, Did I make it through?
"Yeah. Yeah, son, you did." Wrath cleared his throat, and Beth stroked his tattooed forearm as if she knew he was struggling with emotion. "Congratulations."
John blinked quick, his chest constricting. Am I still... me?
"Yes. Always."
"Shall I go?" a female voice said.
John turned his head. Layla was standing in a dim corner, her perfectly beautiful face and her perfectly beautiful body in the shadows.
Instant. Hard-on.
Like someone injected steel into his cock.
He fumbled to make sure he was covered up, and thanked God when there was a blanket already over him. As he settled back on the pillow, Wrath was talking, but John's sole focus was throb between his legs... and the female across the room.
"It would be my pleasure to stay," Layla said with a deep bow.
Staying was good, John thought. Her staying was...
Wait, the hell it was good. He wasn't going to have sex with her, for God's sake.
She stepped forward, into the pool of illumination thrown by the lamp on the bedside table. Her skin was white as moonlight, smooth as a satin sheet. It would be soft, too... under his hands, under his mouth... under his body. Abruptly John's upper jaw tingled on both sides, right in front, then something protruded into his mouth. A quick stroke of his tongue and he felt the sharp points of his fangs.
Sex roared through his body until he had to look away from her.
Wrath chuckled a little, as if he knew what John was all about. "We'll leave you two. John, we're right down the hall if you need anything."
Beth leaned down and barely brushed his hand with hers, as if she knew exactly how sensitive his skin was. "I'm so proud of you."
As their eyes met, what came to him was, And I of you.
Which made absolutely no sense. So he signed in a sloppy way, Thank you, instead.
They were gone a moment later, the door shutting him and Layla in together. Oh, this was not good. He felt he was on a bucking bronco, for all the control he had over his body.
As it wasn't safe to look at the Chosen, he glanced over to the bathroom. Through the jambs, he saw the marble shower and got a serious case of the Joneses.
"Would you care to wash, your grace?" Layla said. "Shall I run the water for you?"
He nodded to get her busy with something while he tried to figure out what to do with himself.
Take her. Fuck her. Have her twelve different ways.
Okay, yeah, that was not what he should be doing.
The shower came on and Layla came back, and before he knew what was doing, the blanket came off his body. His hands shot up to cover himself, but her eyes got to his erection first.
"May I help you into the bath?" Her voice was husky, and she stared at his hips as if she approved.
Which inflated that huge weight under his palms even more.
"Your grace?"
Just how was he supposed to sign in this condition?
Whatever. She wouldn't understand him anyway.
John shook his head, then sat up, keeping one hand on himself and planting the other on the mattress for stability. Shit, he felt like a table whose screws had all been loosened, his constituent parts not fitting together well anymore. And the trip into the bathroom seemed like an obstacle course, even though there was nothing in his way.
At least he wasn't solely focused on Layla anymore.
Keeping himself cupped, he stood and wobbled into the bathroom, trying not to think about how he was mooning Layla. While he went along, images of newborn foals played through his head, particularly the ones where their spindly legs bent like wires as they struggled to keep off the ground. He so got that. It seemed like at any moment his knees were going to take a vacation and he was going to yard-sale like an idiot.
Right. He was in the bathroom. Good job.
Now if he could just keep from hitting the bald marble. Although, God, getting clean would be worth the contusions. Except even the shower he wanted so badly was trouble. Stepping under the warm, gentle spray was like getting lashed with a whip, and he jumped back - only to catch Layla disrobing out of the corner of his eye.
Holy Christ... She was beautiful.
As she joined him he was speechless, and not because he had no voice box. Her br**sts were full, the rosy ni**les tight in the midst of their lush weight. Her waist looked small enough for him to circle it with his hands. Her hips were a perfect balance to her narrow shoulders. And her sex... her sex was bare to his eyes, the skin smooth and hairless, the little slit made up of two folds he was desperate to part.
He clamped both of his hands to himself, as if his c**k were liable to leap right off his pelvic girdle.
"May I wash you, your grace?" she said as steam swirled between them like fine cloth in a soft breeze.
The arousal behind his hands jerked.
"Your grace?"
His head nodded. His body throbbed. He thought of Qhuinn talking about what he'd done with the female he'd had. Oh, Jesus . . . And now it was happening to John.
She picked up the soap and massaged it between her palms, rolling the bar around and around, suds foaming up white and dripping onto the tile. He imagined his c**k in between her hands and had to breathe through his mouth.
Look at her br**sts sway, he thought as he licked his lips. He wondered if she'd let him kiss her there. What would she taste like? Would she let him go between her -
His c**k jumped, and he let out a plaintive moan.
Layla put the soap back in the little dish on the marble wall. "I'll be gentle, as you are sensitive now."
He swallowed hard and prayed he didn't lose control as her frothy hands came toward him and settled on his shoulders. Unfortunately the anticipation was far more enjoyable than the reality. Her light touch like sandpaper on a sunburn... and yet he craved the contact.
Craved her. With the smell of French-milled soap wafting up in the moist, hot air, her palms traveled down his arms, then back up and over his now tremendous chest. Suds ran past his belly and onto his hand, threading between his fingers before dripping off his sex in soft clumps.
He stared into her face as she lingered on his chest, finding it beyond erotic that her pale green eyes roamed over his new, big body.
She was hungry, he thought. Hungry for what he was holding in his hands. Hungry for what he wanted to give her.
She took the soap out of the dish again and knelt before him, knees on the marble. Her hair was still up in its chignon, and he wanted to take it down, wanted to see what it looked like wet and plastered to her br**sts.
As she put her hands on his lower leg and started north, her eyes lifted up. In a flash he saw her giving him head, his erection stretching her mouth wide, her cheeks sucking in and out as she worked him.
John moaned and swayed, bumping his shoulder.
"Drop your arms, your grace."
Even though he was terrified of what was going to happen next, he wanted to obey her. Except what if he made a fool out of himself? What if he came all over her face because he couldn't hold back? What if -
"Your grace, drop your arms."
He slowly let his hands fall away from himself, and his arousal jutted straight out of his hips, not so much defying gravity as being totally outside of its reach.
Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus... Her hand was lifting up toward -
The instant she touched his cock, the erection deflated: From out of nowhere he saw himself in a grungy stairwell. Held at knifepoint. Violated while he cried silently.
John jerked away from her hold and stumbled out of the shower, his wet feet and his loose knees making him slip on the floor. To keep from falling over, he ass-planted it on the toilet.
