Page 67 of Sin

“Not always. You should see what I can do with a plague.”

“No thanks. I think I’ll pass.”

Huffing, he pulled my desk chair around and sat, legs spread, six-pack rippling, one hand on his waistband. “It’s been ages. This won’t take long. Do you need a bib or something?”

My eyes went wide. Was he talking about feeding me?

For someone offering to rub one out, he sure didn’t seem, well, excited. My eyes dropped to his lap, and my brow hitched up at the complete lack of notable interest. Gray sweatpants showed everything, and that was not an eager bulge. That was a sleepy bulge.

“It doesn’t work that way. You actually have to, you know, want it.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m a male, hellcat. I pretty much always want it.”

“And yet you haven’t done it in centuries? Sounds like you don’t want it that badly.”

A flicker of discomfort flashed across his face. “I have my reasons.”

“I’m sure you do. But I’m not going to feed off someone who isn’t willing. It would be like eating potato chips when what I really need is a nice juicy steak.”

The discomfort in his eyes was replaced by confusion, and I felt compelled to elaborate.

“Potato chips are great, but they don’t actually nourish you. It’s empty calories, you know? It won’t fill me up. So if your goal is to feed me, well, I hate to break it to you, but that’s not going to get the job done.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed before he locked eyes with me. “What do I need to do, then?”

God, he hated me. He hated everything about being here right now. I’d felt more sexual excitement at the gynecologist's office. The only emotion I could glean from him was mild disgust. This was never going to work.

“Get me someone else. Sin or Chaos.”

He shook his head and leaned back in the chair. “No can do. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m the only option. They’re both out.”

Out? Those fuckers got to go out while I was locked up in here? Fucking double standards.

“Where’s Grim?”

“If you think I’m unwilling...” He chuckled darkly. “Grim isn’t going to be any help.”

“Well, this isn’t going to work for me. You can barely tolerate me.” I gestured to his lap. “Your dick isn’t even hard.”

He shifted in his seat, and I swear it was like I’d summoned a monster because just the mention of his dick had it... inflating.

“Jesus Christ, do you have an air compressor attached to that thing?”

“See? I’ll make it work.”

He didn’t get it. Hard or flaccid, if he wasn’t fully invested, he wouldn’t enjoy it. And ifhedidn’t enjoy it, I’d get nothing out of it.

This wasn’t just about the mechanical act of getting off. This was about pleasure. True pleasure. Mind-melting, toe-curling pleasure. The kind you could only find when you lost yourself to the moment completely. Right now, Malice looked like he was bracing himself for a boring business meeting, not like he was in desperate need of release. All this would give him was an unsatisfying orgasm. I needed something like what I’d had with OriginalSin during our private cam session. That had been the last time I’d fed and been sated for longer than a few hours.

“Look, just forget it,” I muttered, flopping back on the bed. I’d rather starve to death than have to explain this to him. I closed my eyes, exhaustion seeping into every cell of my being. Maybe I’d just waste away and become one with this duvet.

Malice loosed a heavy sigh that I could relate to in the depths of my soul. Then he stood, or I gathered as much from the creak of the chair and the soft pad of his footsteps. I opened my eyes when the bed dipped as he sat gingerly beside me, his hand hovering over my knee for a beat before he finally allowed it to rest on my skin.

“I know I’m a cranky, insufferable arsehole. I can’t help it. It’s who I’ve been for centuries. But I do really want to help you right now. I just...” He dragged a hand through his hair and heaved another long-suffering sigh. “I don’t know how to make this better for you.”

Propping myself on my elbows once more, I stared at him, the contact of his palm on my bare knee only serving to amp up my appetite. It was like holding a plate of freshly baked cookies under a starving person’s nose but not allowing them a taste.

“You tell me you’re willing, but all I’m picking up from you is how uncomfortable you are. Maybe if there was something else, hell, even your hate might help because hate fucks serve a very important purpose, but this”—I gestured to him—“indifference isn’t going to cut it.”

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