Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 115860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Sleep is impossible now with my blood raging and visions of Sydney burned into my retinas.
In a handful of hours, I have to face her at the office, haunted by my nocturnal fantasies of her nails raking my back, of her intoxicating scent filling my head, of her throaty cries in my ears. That dream revealed more than lust; it demonstrated the primal thrill of claiming her as mine. Of knowing she’s safe and whole. Protected.
How can I resist when every fiber of my being craves her?
Groaning, I collapse back onto sweat-damp sheets. Lucan’s guest room feels like a bloody tomb, the house’s very walls whispering of violation and loss.
The clock on the nightstand mocks me: eleven p.m. Since Sydney’s phantom touch is still searing my skin, I’m wide awake.
Bloody hell.
All day, I felt revved up. By seven, exhaustion flattened me, an oddity after two nights of uncharacteristic twelve-hour slumbers. Now, after a mere four hours of shut-eye, my obsessive dream of Sydney jolted me awake and left my body screaming with a primal need for her I can barely contain.
Go to her, something in my head whispers. You ache for her. She wants you.
“And then what?” I mutter to the empty room.
I still have to work with her. And after what Lucan has endured, I don’t want a magical mate, especially one intent on exposing Mathias.
To make matters worse, it’s obvious magic isn’t going to leave me in peace. My transition from man to wizard is coming—not tonight, but soon. And there isn’t a bloody thing I can do to stop it. Any male born with the magical gene transitions somewhere around age thirty…and endures for another nine hundred years.
My birthday is in eight days.
I shiver in the November chill, despite my overheated body. I reach for the blankets and groan when they brush my naked cock. The sensation makes me grit my teeth and fist the covers. The ache for Sydney nearly flattens me.
Madness. I have to put her out of my mind, douse my sex drive, and get some sleep so I can function tomorrow.
Reaching beneath the covers, I fist my turgid length and stroke it. Again. Again, rapidly picking up speed and pleasure. After my dream, it doesn’t take much, and soon, I’m ready to burst. A vision of Sydney, bare and wanton, blazes across my mind. My muscles tense. My breathing ratchets up, and my hand strokes faster. I dig my heels into the mattress and arch as my need detonates into a bliss that has me shouting with release.
As the orgasm subsides, I pant, waiting for satisfaction to ease my body. But I’m every bit as hard and needy as I was before masturbating. Visions of Sydney continue to gyrate in my head, despite how damn tired I feel.
I close my eyes. Instantly, my dream replays again in my head.
“Touch me,” Sydney whispers. “Here.” She guides my hand to her breast, urging me to toy with her hard nipple. “And here.” She brings my hand between her legs, where she’s wet and burning and ready.
Again, I wrap my fingers around my steely cock, then jerk away with a snarl. Screw more self-pleasure. I only want a particular redheaded reporter who’s ambitious, painfully honest, and too bloody smart.
Damn magic for ensuring I can’t ignore my feelings for Sydney.
I throw off my blankets and hop in the shower, then toss on a T-shirt, joggers, and trainers.
I hesitate.
Am I really thinking of crossing town in the middle of the night to pound on Sydney’s door and demand sex? Even though I’ve refused her once and raised her suspicions? Brilliant plan. I wouldn’t be surprised if she refuses to let me in.
But what if she says yes?
Sex with Sydney would be fraught with magical landmines. I refuse to take a mate and risk Lucan’s fate befalling me. So I can’t kiss her—or taste her in any way, despite the fact I’m dying to. Nor can I risk this job. It’s vital to completing my mission.
Unfortunately, what I feel for sassy, smart Sydney is far more than lust. I connect with her in a way I can’t explain, and I fear that once I have her, my interest in her will go from fixation to obsession, and the random women at the pubs I’ve been using to balance my energy will no longer do.
Definitely, I should stay home. Undress, go back to sleep, stop thinking about Sydney.
Instead, I race to the kitchen. Shadows darken the room, faintly illuminated by London’s lights. There, on the counter, are my keys. I should leave them untouched, refuse temptation.
In my dream, I was unable to resist Sydney. What I feel now is ten times stronger.
Telling myself that I’m going to hell, I grab the ring, shove the keys in my pocket, then slam out the door.