Page 12 of Hunted Mate
“Shhhh, baby,” he purrs. “You’re going to get to come. Don’t worry. I’m going to fuck you nice and deep, and I’m going to make you take my cock, and you’re going to be filled up just like you need to be. Now be a good girl and let me fuck you.”
He fucks me harder, rubbing my clit between his fingers, forcing me toward climax right as he follows it with deeper, harder, faster strokes that herald his own orgasm. He roars his climax as he shoots inside my bare pussy, filling me all the way up, giving me everything he says I need.
I come on his cock, obediently. I do as I am told and I shake and shiver and my pussy draws his seed as deep as it can go inside me, all the way to my womb.
Fuck.
What the hell am I doing?
“You’re such a good little fuck pet,” he praises, locked inside me. “You took that so nicely. All you needed was my cock, wasn’t it.”
I make another incoherent sound. I don’t know what to say. My brain feels as though it’s no longer functional. I know I can’t actually agree with him, but maybe thatwaswhat I needed. I feel a sense of calm I didn’t have before. I feel like I am floating with pleasure.
He pulls out of my pussy, stretching my tender lips on the way out. It really feels like he is so big he can barely get out of me. How does it do that? He reaches out and rubs the length of his fingers over my dripping pussy.
“No more research,” he says. “If I have to come back a third time, it won’t be in a way you enjoy. I promise you that.”
He pats my pussy, and then he leaves me satisfied, sore, and dripping his cum.
I hear his footsteps retreating toward the stairs, then going up them one step at a time. The door at the top opens, then closes again.
He’s gone.
I lie on my desk, in the dark, one hand down between my thighs, thinking about everything that just happened. I am aching with pleasure, and the seed from the stranger is sliding out of mypussy. I have allowed myself to be ravaged for a second time by a shadowy stalker.
I think about his warning.
I think about all the terrible, painful things he will do to me if I do not do as he says and stop my research.
And then I get back to work.
CHAPTER 3
Calista
Days pass, and my research only starts to yield even better results. The cursed-children-of-the-wild angle is bearing fruit. It’s not a term I’d heard before. I’m always surprised as to how there’s always something new to learn even after years of looking. This is how people devote their lifetimes to things. This is how doctorates and then… there should probably be something called a super doctorate. Is there? I don’t know. If there was, I would have a super doctorate in werewolves. Except for the fact I really don’t think I know much about them at all.
I have everything pinned up on the boards in my office. I’ve even drawn a little logo type thing to signify cursed children of the wild. If my stalker wants to come back and fuck me again, he’s welcome to.
Developing a taste for rough sex is far from the worst thing that could happen to me. It’s actually to my advantage, and in my interests. I’ve discovered that getting laid means I have a lot more mental energy for focus. I used to have this perpetualtension that would keep sidetracking me. I never knew why it was there, but it’s gone now.
I actually enjoy working on my materials even more. It feels like I’m defying a true force of nature now, a man who dares think that exploiting my sexuality and punishing me is going to stop me. He’s going to learn different. He can watch me uncover all the secrets of the wolves, and then he can watch me show the world that it is far more magic and far darker than any of us like to imagine.
I leave the office at three in the morning, when I’m too tired to stay a moment longer, and I go home to sleep. I’ve thought a lot about sleeping in the basement with my work, but I know people would find that odd. I’ve been sensitized to worry about people thinking I’m odd. Events as a teenager taught me that you can do almost anything when you have enough money, except get too weird. People tolerate murder, lying, trafficking, whatever you care to name—but they don’t tolerate strange.
So I go home to the house I’m supposed to have and I sleep in the bed I’m supposed to sleep in. In the morning, I have cereal. I don’t like cereal, but I know that if I ever get asked what I had for breakfast, which happens more often than it should, I can say cereal. And then people will think I’m down to earth and stable.
Anyway. I have the cereal and I go to the building that has my name on it.
It’s on fire.
I can’t see smoke, but I know it is on fire because there are firemen everywhere. Hoses are snaking into the building. There’s water splashed around from hydrants, and from the truck.
Everyone is assembled outside, milling around. Some are vaping. Some people have sandwiches. How can they have sandwiches at a time like this? I feel in my gut that this is bad, for me, specifically.
“What happened?” I ask Roger, the office manager. He’s tall and balding and he looks bored and faintly annoyed. I think Roger would be bored and faintly annoyed no matter what.
“There was a fire in the basement,” he says.
