Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
A lot of fucking hair that smelled exactly like this shit in the jar at Morgaine’s place.
Nyx.
CHAPTER SIX
Morgaine
I mean, he’d been joking when he’d made that off-hand comment about having something loose up in my head.
But as the hours and then days dragged by after he’d departed in a rush after smelling one of my jars—probably thinking it was possible to poison him with scent alone, which it was, but I didn’t use that kind of stuff in my hair masks—I was starting to wonder if maybe he wasn’t exactly wrong about that.
Because only crazy women couldn’t get men who’d busted into her home and bound her to the wall by her wrists out of their head.
Only crazy women remembered how big his hands were, wrapping around her wrists, how much strength was behind them, how intense his dark gaze was up close.
Yep.
Crazy.
Definitely crazy.
It was also crazy that later that night after a cool shower to get all the clay and paint off of me, I dropped naked into bed in an attempt to stay cool.
But a part of me knew the truth.
It was pretty temperate outside, for the time of year, anyway.
The heat I was feeling?
It was the internal sort.
Like a fever that wouldn’t go away.
Only I wasn’t sick.
Except, as we have established, possibly in the head.
But as I tossed and turned on top of my blankets, I had to admit the truth.
The source of the feverish heat.
It had nothing to do with the weather or an illness.
And everything to do with him.
The attractive stranger who’d shown up at my door.
It was easy, of course, to blame time.
To blame celibacy.
The kind I’d forced upon myself. Not necessarily because of my own personal trauma, but because of the traumas of other women, the weight of their stories, the way they’d never seen it coming, the way they’d never seen a sign of evil in these men until it was too late.
It created a sense of danger around the sex as a whole that I found it impossible to overcome. Even the thought of a man brushing my shoulder made me recoil. I couldn’t imagine letting one into my bed, into me.
So pesky little physical annoyances like desire had sort of withered and died off inside me.
Until, of course, him.
A man who had danger written all over him.
A man who I had no business wanting anything to do with.
Let alone that way.
Yet there was no denying the way my body wanted him, the way he’d caused a heat to overtake me. The way I was suddenly acutely aware of my breasts, of the throbbing empty space between my thighs.
Desire.
It was one of those natural urges.
The kind that, the more you denied, the stronger the urge got.
Desire, like thirst, like hunger, didn’t go away on its own. It was always there, dormant at times, then coming back with a vengeance.
That was what it felt like as I slammed my head back on my pillow.
Vengeance.
Like my body had a score to settle with me for denying it what it craved for so long.
“Damnit,” I groaned as the ache between my thighs became too strong to deny any longer, making my hand slide down my stomach and slip in over the top of my thigh.
Only, I wasn’t thinking of my own hand. Small, long-boned, great for pulling weeds and curving wet clay into mugs and teacups, even the occasional piece of jewelry.
No.
I was thinking about his.
Nearly twice the size of mine, strong, scarred. It didn’t take much imagining to come to the conclusion that those scars got there from fights, from the violence that matched the dark look in his eyes.
It was his hand I thought about gliding over my skin, then slipping between my thighs to slide up my cleft and find my clit, working it in slow, unrelenting circles as my back arched off of the mattress, as my muscles tensed, as my airy breaths became little whimpers that turned into loud moans as the orgasm crept closer and closer.
So lost in the moment, I could easily envision it being his hands. Or, better yet, his face. Right there between my thighs, his tongue on the most sensitive part of me, his long, silky hair teasing over my thighs.
At that, the orgasm slammed through my system, stealing my breath, making my body shudder hard as the waves kept crashing.
I figured that, afterward, I would feel satisfied. Satiated.
It wasn’t like that, though.
No.
It was almost as if, by giving in, I’d only managed to break open something inside of me. This clawing, needy, well, horny side of me.
And no amount of touching or even trying to distract myself could seem to make it go away.
At the end of the day, I knew that was the reason I was making the long, lonely trek from my homestead and into the heart of Shady Valley.