Page 18 of The Bull's Beauty
The fight leaves her in a weary sigh. She lets her head fall against my shoulder, and the trust in that small gesture threatens to undo me completely. I hold her closer and start walking. Ulric and the human female wordlessly fall in behind usas we move forward, putting as much distance between us and the Orc tribe as possible.
We don’t speak. The only sounds are the crunch of my hooves on the forest floor and her shallow, uneven breathing. After nearly an hour, I find a small, secluded clearing sheltered by a rocky overhang and a curtain of weeping willow branches. A shallow stream trickles nearby.
I set her down gently on a soft patch of moss. Her knees buckle slightly, and she steadies herself against my arm. Her face is pale, her brow beaded with sweat. She’s holding herself stiffly, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
“Beatrice,” I say softly.
She won’t look at me. Her cheeks are flushed with a humiliation that makes my chest ache. “I need…I need a minute. Alone.”
I don’t understand at first. Then I see the dark, damp patches spreading on the front of her blouse, the way she’s pressing her forearms hard against her chest. She’sfull.It finally dawns on me that she probably hasn’t milked herself since I’d watched her the other night. The memory hits me with the force of a physical blow, heat and shame and a fierce, protective urge colliding in my gut.
“Ulric,” I command suddenly, my voice leaving no room for debate. “Scout the ridge ahead. Human female, go with him.”
The woman’s eyes widen. “Wait, you’re just going to leave me—”
“It’s okay, Cassia,” Beatrice whispers, the words barely audible. She won’t look at either of them, her humiliation a palpable force. “Just…give me a minute.”
Cassia looks from Beatrice’s pained expression to my unyielding one. Understanding, and then a flicker of sympathy, dawns on her face. She gives a tight nod. “Yeah. Okay. Come on,dog-breath.” She grabs Ulric by the arm and pulls him further up the path, giving us a wide berth.
I give her space, turning my back under the pretense of scanning the tree line for threats. But my every sense is tuned to her. I hear the rustle of fabric, a sharp, pained intake of breath, and then a low, shuddering sigh of relief.
I shouldn’t look. It’s the worst kind of violation. But I am not a good man. I am a Bull burning for his mate.
I glance over my shoulder.
She’s half-hidden by the long wisps of the branches, her head bowed. Her shirt is open, and her hands are working at her breast, milk spraying in short, white streams onto the moss. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her brow furrowed in a mixture of discomfort and release. It’s the most intimate thing I’ve ever seen. My cock aches, hard and desperate against my leathers. I want to be the one to give her that relief. I want to kneel before her and take the ache away with my tongue, to drink my fill of her until she’s boneless and sighing my name.
She finishes one side, switching to the other with a soft, frustrated sound. She’s still so uncomfortable. She didn’t get it all out.
I can’t stay silent anymore. I turn fully, my voice low so as not to startle her. “Beatrice.”
Her eyes fly open, wide with horror and shame. She fumbles to cover herself, turning away. “Don’t look at me!”
I take a slow step closer, then another, my hands raised in a gesture of peace. “There’s nothing to be ashamed about.” I stop a few feet away. The scent of her milk is sweet on the air, and it takes every ounce of my control not to fall to my knees. “Let me help you.”
She shakes her head violently, “No! Just… go away.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” I crouch down beside her, putting myself below her eye level to make myself less of a threat. “Look at me.”
Tears well in her eyes, spilling over onto her cheeks. It’s the final surrender. The last of her walls crumbles under the weight of her exhaustion and pain. She gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
I guide her to sit against the rock, its surface cool and solid. I kneel before her. My hands are surprisingly steady as I reach for the laces of her tunic. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t stop me.
The world narrows to this moment. To the sound of her shaky exhale, the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, the scent of her skin and milk and fear. I push the fabric aside, baring her swollen, aching breasts. Her skin is flushed, her nipples taut and desperate for relief. She whimpers, a sound of pure agony and shame, while she tries to turn her face away.
“Look at me, Beatrice,” I command gently, cupping her cheek and turning her face back to mine. Her green eyes are swimming with tears. “There is no shame in this. Not with me.”
My touch is feather-light as I cradle the heavy weight of one breast. Her entire body trembles. I lean forward, and I want to take her into my mouth, but that is a pleasure for another time. Instead, I use my hands, the way I’ve watched her do it when she thought no one was looking. A firm, steady, rhythmic pressure.
She cries out as the first spray releases, a sharp sound of relief that quickly dissolves into a broken sob. The milk streams out, white against the green moss. The relief is so immediate and intense that her body sags against the rock, her eyes fluttering closed.
“That’s it,” I murmur, my voice a low rumble. “Let it go. I’ve got you.”
I work with a focused tenderness, switching sides when the first is empty, until the painful tension has drained from her body, leaving her boneless and pliant. The air is thick with the sweet, rich scent of her milk and the simmering heat of my own desire. My cock is hard, throbbing against the confines of my leathers, a relentless ache. The sight of her like this, surrendered and trusting, is the most potent aphrodisiac I’ve ever known. I want to taste her. I want to lave my tongue over every inch of her sensitized skin. I want to bury myself inside her until we both forget our own names.
But, I don’t. I stay on my knees as her worshipper, not her conqueror.
When I’m done, I gently re-tie her tunic. She opens her eyes, and the look she gives me is utterly new. The anger is gone and all that’s left is a vulnerable, bewildered wonder.
