Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 78164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
A few drops of blood spilled, crimson as they marked my clavicle and breast.
Earlier, it had been his red stain upon me. Now, it was mine.
Yet, no part of my brain thought to panic, not trapped as it was in a growing overload of sensation. The body was not designed to feel so many contrary things at once. From my chest, I rattled out an unbidden call, the musculature of my abdomen moving and waving, my legs shaking, and my arms useless where I gripped his wrist like a lifeline.
The world began to spin, a transcendent burst of fire burning away everything in its path, a different kind of climax that had no end in sight.
The pleasure offered no fulfillment, not like the way he could make me feel when he was inside me or adoring me with his tongue. The waves uncoiling struck places within, reminding my body of what it was and why it was full. Shaking loose tension as I rattled and strained.
It wasn’t until I completely let go that I was swept up and incapable of coherent thought. Only then did he begin to ease off.
My breast ached and my cunt throbbed, ripples still dancing over my belly. I bled from his teeth, but my eyes were bright.
Gently, he soothed my burning breast. Carefully, he pulled his fingers from my abused core.
His tongue laved my wound until I ceased bleeding.
“That’s better,” he whispered at my ear before sucking his fingers clean of my slippery fluids.
Watching his reflection savor my taste, I found myself biting my lip, the whole display indecent.
And I liked it. I liked him obscene.
Heaven, help me.
Who in the hell was I?
I must have said it aloud, Cyderial grinning wickedly as he replied, “You’re my mate.”
A loud smack landed on my ass, my jaw hanging loose when he announced, “Come, let’s get you dressed.”
Over the years, I had seen Cyderial in his various uniforms. In his home, I saw him in low-slung silken trousers. Never had I seen the male in casual clothing.
It was disturbing.
Normalcy fit against his skin as if hiding what he really was inside. Had I not known him, I would’ve never thought, There goes a man who has ordered the execution of my classmates.
Handsome and approachable, how could that male be the same who offered to give me a human head on a plate?
His sweater was soft, formfitting, thin enough that musculature was on display. Other females would see just how strong he was, how well-formed he might be. The gray slacks were nothing abnormal, but no jacket covered his hips.
Those glutes I liked to grip when he was working deep inside me? They were available for others’ eyes.
Jealousy. I understood the feeling, but I could not fathom where it was coming from. Never before had I looked at Cyderial and felt I owned him. Until now.
Uncomfortable with my unconscious reaction, I ignored it as best as I could.
Chalked it up to hormones and an uninvited mating bond—not at all an acceptable behavior to encourage. However, more than once as I watched him dress, I almost asked why he could not wear his uniform.
And I thought he suspected my discomfort.
“Is there something you want to say?” Nonchalant, the question seemed innocent but was anything but.
Yes. I wanted to say I could control my baser urges and not fall into whatever irrationality this was. “I hardly recognize you.” I could even give him a compliment; that was acceptable. “You look… different.”
His chest rattled in response, and I swear his eyes glittered behind his blond hair as he looked at me. “It isn’t so easy, is it?”
So, he did know. He knew exactly how I felt. I could be honest if there was no point in pretending. “It’s very strange to feel this way.”
“I have been told it fades after fifty years or so, or at least becomes more bearable. I can confirm that, in ten years, I have not once been able to share you easily. I love seeing you beautifully dressed. I love that you trust me enough to take you out with your womb full. But I also hate the idea that anyone other than I may look at your beauty. It’s mine.”
That was what the obnoxious voice in my head kept saying. He’s mine.
And I would never have chosen him, had he not stolen me.
My dress was red but not garish. Long, full sleeves of a floaty material. The neckline cut in a V-shape, yet my breasts were not exposed. The idea was instead to draw the eye to my swollen middle. This garment had been made specifically to showcase the distended belly of a plugged female.
Or a pregnant one.
The remaining, flowing fabric fell to my sandaled feet.
“I have a gift for you.”
Gift? The only gifts I’d ever received were sweets from my mother.