Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 140412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
“What—” I begin, not sure where any of this is going.
“You’ll need it,” he says. “You’ll be very, very wet.”
I gasp in what I think might be outrage but is definitely excitement. I believe him because I’m already achy and dripping.
He picks up the paintbrush; it has a rounded tip that ends in a slight point. “I made a mistake before,” he says, almost apologetic. “I was so overcome with wanting you before, I didn’t take my time.”
I say nothing because I don’t know what to say.
“It occurred to me that, in your inexperience, you might think you have to settle for instant gratification.”
I scoff. “Someone thinks highly of himself.”
“Someone is realistic,” he corrects me, moving down to my feet again. “You can’t pretend that you didn’t come. The proof was smeared all over my face. I felt your cunt ripple around my tongue.”
The words are like direct touches to my clit.
“I don’t have anything against a quick, hard fuck that leaves us both satiated,” he goes on. “But you deserve to experience the bliss of delayed release. The torture of teasing.”
He strokes the paintbrush from my heel, over the ticklish arch of sole, and my foot flexes and spasms.
“Don’t you want to know what that’s like?” he asks as I squirm. “Don’t you want to know how I can make you beg? How I can make you writhe?”
Another stroke makes me giggle from the sensation, but it’s not like a playful tickle.
“Don’t you want to know how hard I can make you come?”
Another stroke, this time in reverse, swooping down around the ball where my ankle meets my foot.
“Yes,” I say, though I’m not sure he’s going to prove his hypothesis through tickling me. He drags the brush over the top of my foot and my toes wriggle helplessly. But I’m less sensitive now, not as a ticklish.
Until he moves to the other foot.
“You don’t want to feel lop-sided, do you?” he playfully admonishes while I giggle and make a futile try to avoid the brush. This time, when he’s finished with my foot, he moves further up my leg, just along my calf, to the bend of my knee. The featherlight touches are somehow the most overwhelming sensations I’ve ever experienced, and I realize with a pang of worry that it’s going to be a lot more intense. He hasn’t reached my pussy yet, and by the time he trails the brush up the inside of both thighs, I’m so grateful that the suspense is at an end. I crave direct contact, even if it is just the brush. But the moment the bristles reach my labia, he moves away.
I choke out a wordless sound of dismay, and he laughs. “Oh, Bailey. We’ve barely begun.”
He lifts the vial of strangely opalescent fluid. “I’m sure you remember our mating.”
It was the last time we had sex, and yes, I remember it. I remember it started off horribly, as he pummeled my body with the strength and size and brutal hardness of his werewolf form. And then, it had all changed.
“Did you know the process of werewolf mating? Beyond the simple mechanics. Did you know what it would feel like?”
I shake my head.
“There’s a hormone we release during the full moon. It’s especially strong at Lupercalia, because of it being a fertility festival. You remember when I came inside you, the first time?” He asks.
I eye the vial suspiciously. “Is that...magic werewolf cum?”
He laughs. “This? No. This is a synthetic derivation of that hormone. It produces the same aphrodisiac effect. The heightened sensation.” He pops the top off the vial. “Thralls are so clever at blending silence with their magic,” he muses, dipping the paintbrush into the fluid. A single drop hangs suspended at the point of the bristles. He smooths his palm over my silk-covered belly, then to the top of my mound. Parting my labia, he exposes my clitoris, and as I moan in relief at the touch, he slides the hood back, leaving the too-sensitive gland fully exposed. He dangles the brush directly over it, the drop of fluid poised to fall.
He continues, “They’ve managed to somehow make it even more potent.”
And the drop falls.
CHAPTER 34
It’s like being struck by lightning. But in a good way. My body convulses from that single drop. My lungs heave for breath, my empty cunt clutches down on a phantom intrusion that I welcome, and I scream, racing toward a climax that will burst me apart at the seams.
A climax that never comes.
I never come.
“What did you do?” I gasp, sweat rolling down my face as every nerve strains with the agony of need.
“I told you. It’s more potent.” He moves up my writhing body to cup one of my breasts. The touch, even through the silk nightgown, should be enough to bring me over the edge, but I’m stuck. He lifts my breast free and sucks my exposed nipple into his mouth, closing his tongue over it.