Page 109 of The SnowFang Secret


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This was sadistic.

Searle half-dragged me up the steps as I stumbled, dizzy and loopy from my increasing fever and the constant twitching and shivering heat caused. And the sensitive, painful nerves between my legs. His touch was the only cool, comforting thing there was. His scent was dizzying and tempting.

No.

I just have to get through two days.

He opened the door to our rooms. I broke from him and stumbled through. Heat instantly seared me without his touch and my brain howled, begging me to turn back around and plaster myself against him. I dragged myself to the window instead, quivering and whimpering as pain/lust/need wracked my body and the fever made it hard to think.

Searle was breathing hard himself and backed away into the other room, but he didn’t stay gone long, and paced back in, watching me from the far side of the bed.

I huddled against the window,trying to keep the flames bathing my brain at bay. Thehungergoing on between my thighs was worse than any hunger my stomach had ever endured. And thirst. Andwant. And theterrorof what it'd drive me to do. Conscious thoughts flitted in and out of my mind, and the fire burned away coherent thoughts unless I held onto them with mental fingers that quickly scorched trying to hold on to the ash.

It wasn't just my ovaries betraying me. It was my entire body. My fever was desperately high and climbing, and my body shivered/twitched to generate even more heat. That's how heat worked. It wasn't just becoming a starving vampire that could only survive off cock. It gave you a fever that literally roasted your brain, and no aspirin or meds would bring it down. Ice baths and snow drifts could help, but the cure was... what it was. Heat could kill females. It could also really wreck your relationships...

And the fever turned my brain inside out. I shivered despite roasting, so, sosocold and so so so hot at the same time, and in addition to everything else, my muscles ached, and everything was on fire. Throw me on the grill. It might be more comfortable.

Searle loomed close. My body wentyes, yes, come closerand my scent pulled him. I screamed for him to leave, to go away, but I couldn’t get my throat to shape the words.

Searle, entire body tense and rigid, carefully sat next to me. His body brushed mine, and I whimpered as my nerves howledyes, yes, more, moreand my pussy soaked my thighs again, probably distributing a scent that beggedfuck me, pleaseall over the room. Was all of him rigid? Was he hard? Was—

I tried to tell my fevered brain tostop, but it howled and howled and twitched and twitched…

"You need help," he told me softly, his voice plush like velvet, and it felt so good and soothing I moaned softly.

I tried to sayI'll be fine, but all I did was mumble/moan/whimper like a horny bitch with a brain-roasting and nerve-searing fever while my pussy dehydrated me, which was probablynothelping my brain right then.

He cupped my cheek in his palm. The needles receded and that part of my skin cooled. The rest of me whisperedyes, yes, yes, us too, us too.

"Let me help you.” He brought his left hand forward, then slid it down my throat, rested between my breasts, then moved under one breast, over my ribs, to clasp behind my back. Everywhere he touched cooled and calmed and stopped twitching. My body begged him for more and my scent welcomed him and my brain boiled in my skull and the only thing that stopped hurting and twitching for an instant was wherever he touched. He moved closer, and instead of being warm, he wascold, so, so wonderfullycoldand he smelled somale.

I flung myself the rest of the way. I slithered across his lap and wrapped myself around him, growling, and raking my fingernails over his shoulders and neck. His hands clutched me, cool and soothing, and I whimpered, brain boiling while flutters of relief came from his touch. I ground myself against him. He was hard and cold and calm rushed over my hips as I moved against him while his hands slid under my shirt and down into my shorts.

“There it is,” he whispered around my tongue as I squirmed against his cock. He tumbled me onto the carpet, palming one of my breasts with one hand while I hung off his hips by my thighs wrapped around him.

The kiss was like drinking water when you’re dying of thirst. It tasted fetid and wrong, but I couldn’t stop. My brain boiled in my skull.

He used his hand to grab my hair and pull my head back, exposing my neck.

The fever snapped just as he bent to my throat.

No.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING.

My mind screamed at my brain and panic shot right through me, parting my soul from my slavering body.

“No!” I gasped, shoving him away.

The instant contact broke, the suffocating, boiling heat consumed me again. I moaned and curled into a twitching ball that tried to also roll/crawl/wriggle away from him but my limbs wouldn’t obey and my muscles jerked and twitched.

“You’re dying,” he said. His hand grabbed my shorts and pulled down.

“No, no, no,” I gabbled, shaking. The paring knife of realization sliced a tiny sliver of my mind away from the rest of me, letting me see the horror of what I’d just done.

You aren’t HIM.

My body howled with fury and frustration. I sobbed. What had I done? What had I done? What had I done?

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