Page 33 of The Wulver's Bond
Well, if that was how the wolfman wanted to play things, why not have fun with it? Weed grinned with mischief. ‘Will you shag me again, then?’
The arms around him went hard, like he was being held by a statue. Arran’s reply was slow and thick with poorly concealed hunger. ‘I… That was not… what I meant.’
‘You said you’d make amends.’ Weed delighted in the Wulver’s highly uncomfortable stance; Arran’s ears flattened even as his pupils dilated with desire. ‘However I wish. That’s what you said, isn’t it?’
Weed discerned, with tremendous glee, that the rod suddenly poking into his stomach was the Wulver’s extremely solid cock. ‘Woah. Someone’s eager to change their tune! Down, boy!’
Arran spluttered, pushing him away. ‘I wasn’t intending—’
Weed didn’t let him finish. With how low the wolfman had to wear his jeans, the purplish head of his long dick nudged just proud of the waistband, and Weed couldn’t resist. He swiped his thumb over the leaking slit and tasted it.
Arran’s claws dug into him, clutching Weed’s back while another growl-laden groan ripped from his throat. His broad shoulders hunched over. He looked the very picture of a beast fighting his own instincts.
Weed patted the side of Arran’s soft muzzle. ‘Don’t worry, wolf boy. I won’ttake advantageof you right now. Another day, eh? Maybe when you’re a bit more in control of yourself.’
He winked and lifted the Wulver’s arms off him. Then, with a flap of his coat and no backward glance, he flounced past Arran and capered on down the path.
Chapter Twelve
The air seemed a little clearer after Weed’s outburst. Arran found himself feeling lighter for it—even if it had taken the best part of an hour to calm his body down and convince it that no carnal activities were about to take place.
If only Weed knew what he was playing with, taunting him like that.
The thought struck Arran that Weed most likelydidknow, and his acceptance of the danger in it was powerfully provocative. The beast in him enjoyed being provoked. Took it as a challenge.
A challenge Weed had already proven he was capable of delivering.
How delicious. And maddening. And fulfilling. To have been held down by his roots while filling his body with my cum.
A faint snarl curled Arran’s top lip as the thought burned through his mind.Someone who was capable of overpowering him was worthy of beingownedby him.
His cock throbbed, threatening to fill again. Arran shook his head feverishly, trying to throw the thoughts out of it. It was all instinct. Primal impulses. He hated to conceive of imposing ownership over Weed.
Weed deserved to be free, in every way.
It had become obvious to Arran that Weed was a free spirit in the purest of forms. He’d utterly misjudged the cocky, mordant little brat he’d first acquired upon killing Elsie.
Weed’s caustic personality was a veneer. His scathing words were mis-directions. What lay underneath was… a charming, peaceful creature with a heart absolutely full of love for the natural world.
Arran had been sucked in by the open joy of Weed’s soul while they foraged the land. With great pleasure, he’d indulged in Weed’s revelations about the secret world of plants. Listened to his animated chatter about the silent and crawling things under their feet, and about the ambitious, busy efforts of things stretching up to touch the sun. Never before had these barren hills seemed so alive as they did under Weed’s scrutiny.
Weed’s eyes—in fact, his whole being—lit up while he talked. As if the unseen chains had dropped from his wrists and allowed him to fly free. He had the attention span of a hummingbird, constantly flitting from tree to tree, touching their boughs, leaping over stones, kicking water from the river.
Arran felt this was Weed’s natural state, to be bouncing around wild terrain without a care in the world. He noticed, too, all the little behaviours that betrayed Weed’s innate kindness.
Weed was careful to avoid stepping on the den of polecats that lived near to Arran’s home, remarking off-hand that the roots told him the mother had born a good litter of kits this year. He’d stopped dead in his tracks as they traversed the bottom of the ravine, allowing a tiny wood mouse to scurry across his path. Later, he caught Arran’s hand reaching to pluck a clump of sheep sorrel; Weed turned over the leaves to reveal butterfly eggs stuck underneath.
It was obvious that Weed cared deeply about the small lives all around him.
Arran suspected Weed didn’t ascribe the same kind of value to his own life. A lie that Elsie and his other masters had likely beaten into him.
Arran vowed to do everything it took to return Weed to his grove in the fae realm. Where he belonged, and where he deserved to be.
‘Why are you called Weed?’ Arran asked, closing the distance to catch up to Weed as he started to pick a winding path down into the ravine.
Weed didn’t miss a step. ‘S’what Elsie called me. No one bothered before then.’
Arran cocked his head, brow wrinkling. ‘She named you?’
