Page 35 of The Huntsman's Heart
My core clenches and I begin to imagine the kind of pleasure he could give to me, but then I remember the pain of invasion. That is not an experience I’m eager to repeat. “You do please me, Raban. You take such good care of me. It pleases me to see you like this.”
Little moans and whimpers escape him as I work my hand faster and faster over his body. Eventually he begins thrusting into my hand as I stroke him, and I take note, learning the rhythm of his body.
My hand is slick with the dewy release trickling from his cock.
His body shakes. His long tail lashes behind him, but he makes no move to stop me or to touch me. Only his eyes on mine speak the depth of his desire, their amber irises dark with unspoken need.
I squeeze my hand tighter. Raban lets out a choked sound.
His whole shaft surges in my hand.
I keep going, stroking him in little jerky thrusts until, with a gasp, his body shudders and white liquid spills from the tip of his member onto my hand; warm at first, then cooling slightly in the steamy air.
Raban sits back on his heels, his breathing ragged.
I turn my hand and scoop the liquid into my palm, looking at it in wonder. “Is this what your pleasure looks like?”
“Yes. It’s what you made of my pleasure.”
When I look up, he’s watching the milky white drops in my palm as intently as I am. I do not know what possesses me, but, on instinct, I hold it up to him.
His lips drop open. He stares. Then quickly, as if afraid I might stop him, he dips his head and drinks up the liquid from my hand, looking up at me shyly when he is done.
This makes me grin. “Does it taste good?”
He nods. “Yes. Should I have left some to share with you?”
Impulsively, I reach up and pull his head close to mine. Then I lift my own and he meets me in a kiss, dragging his open lips over mine, making me shiver with pent up need. I’m hungry for his touch too but unwilling to take it lest it break the perfect moment with memories I do not wish to relive. Instead I deepen the kiss, reaching with my tongue for a taste of his pleasure, since I won’t submit to mine.
When Raban’s tongue slides against mine the taste is salty, laced with something richer, heady and impossible to define. His lips are every bit as sweet as I thought they would be, and it’s a long time before I draw away.
When we emerge from the baths, I wonder to myself if the others will be able to tell what we’ve done. But when we return to the courtyard, neither Corvin nor Évandre comments on the little smile I cannot wipe from my face. And Raban says nothing, only follows me as devotedly as always, attending to my needsbefore I’ve even thought of them, seeing to everything before I can ask.
Alaric
It’s late in the day when I find it. So tiny, I have to squint and bend down from Tharrok’s back to make sure I haven’t imagined it.
A small scrap of clothing. Rich red, velvet, and covered in mud and leaves. Sliding from the saddle, I bend and pick it up, turning it in my hands. This is not the sort of fabric a knight or woodsman wears. This is the sort of fabric reserved for the highborn.
But this is also not the color the princess was wearing when I took her. So perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps some other nobleman has lost his way in the woods; perhaps his party was ambushed and he was taken by a monster and this is all that remains.
Then I see the scuff marks in the dirt. Displaced leaf litter, broken sticks. Tufts of dire wolf fur are strewn on the ground. There is no blood, though.
Now I’ve seen it, I can’t believe I missed it before. The evidence is practically begging for my attention, but I was too distracted to see it. Yet this is what I was looking for all along.
Part of me hoped she would return to Blackthorn Keep by now. Part was half scared of what would happen if she did. The last sliver was too busy torturing himself over and over with remembered glimpses of her impaled on my cock, squeezing me tight, while conscience warred with pleasure to take control of my mind.
I almost wish she had cried. I would have stopped sooner.
I should have put her out of her misery instead of leaving her changed, alone in the woods.
A noise from behind me slows my movements. I rise cautiously, not springing into action lest I give whatever is watching me a clue that I’ve realized it’s there. Until whoever or whatever it is knows for sure that I’m onto them, then I have the advantage.
Keeping my senses alert, I move to my saddle bag and pretend to look for something.
When there’s no movement from behind, I cautiously slip a foot into the stirrup and mount my horse.
Still nothing.
