Page 12 of Hunted

My chosen one.

“Oh, god,” he whines, and then his own hand slides down his torso and down to his own dick. Fuck me, that’s hot. He caresses my ringed fingers around his shaft while he gyrates his hips, faster and faster. A glossy, green stare watches me through hooded eyes as he bites his lip and rolls his hips.

My little wolf.

“Are you going to come for me, beautiful?”

“What about you?” He breathes, his voice a raspy whisper.

“You want me to take my cock out?” I ask, and Olivier nods on a moan. Opening my black cloak, I pull the sides of my boxer briefs down and my cock plops out, hard and desperate, the tip wet and flush as it bounces against my stomach. It’s wide and rigid, with a vein that has now popped up and is clearly visible. Olivier traces it with a long, slender finger, making me shudder.

“Touch yourself,” he whispers, and rolls back into my hand. “S’il te plait.”

S’il te plait.

Fuck me, I might come before we get to that part.

“Anything for you,” I murmur, then wrap my free hand around my cock and start to stroke. Olivier gasps and shivers, his eyes once more on mine. A glassy stare, parted lips, nostrils flared.

“T’es beau.”

Beautiful. Beautiful. I don’t even know who utters the words, or if it’s just a whisper through the woods, but it's enough to make my chest clench and my balls draw tight.

“I’m going to come,” Olivier pants. His body shivers, and his gyrating hips stutter and falter before the features on his face erupt into one of sheer pleasure. His mouth shapes in an “o” and he moans, the sound, in combination with my working hand, makes my toes curl in ecstasy, then morphs into an explosion as I too, reach my orgasm. One that is mind-blowing in its strength, since it completely sweeps me off my feet. I collapse against him and like a house of cards we collapse onto the ground, Olivier’ back hitting the forest soil, where we stay, a panting mess, my hands firmly wrapped around his shoulders as I pull him close.

6

OLIVIER

My father used to call me a weak child. I was small for my age, slender. It was difficult to talk back to those who made fun of me, bullies because my brain simply couldn’t formulate the words. At times there was so much I wanted to tell them. How their words hurt me, how they didn’t need to throw all this malice over me, like a bucket filled with trash, because I already hated myself enough. It was only years later that I wondered if I would have hated myself as much had they not bullied me. But between their daggers of words and my father’s unspoken disapproval, I don’t know what hurt more.

I guess, in the end, it wasn’t either of those. It was him leaving that cut deeper than any wound. Him taking my baby sister Julie, for sure. Him confirming once more that I wasn’t worth fighting for.

Yeah, that hurt. Through the years after, I managed to become tougher, I guess. Perhaps not more vocal, but I definitely grew a thicker skin. Mom was often away, leaving me in the care of my nanny, Dolores. I liked her, she was sweet to me. She played with me when I was a toddler, taught me how to ride a bicycle at six, built construction Lego with me, read countless stories to me during primary school, and later, at high school, she looked after my cuts and bruises.

“Un jour la vie sera plus facile,” she used to say. One day life will be easier. I always wanted to ask her when that day would come, but that would be a rhetorical question, right? Unless she was some fortune teller, which she clearly wasn’t, she wouldn’t know the answer. So I left the words unspoken and carried on the battle of going to school and making it through to graduation.

Dolores didn’t like Theo, and she didn’t make a secret out of it. She said he should protect me against those fists. He didn’t, and I couldn’t blame him. We were officially unofficially together. His parents would never have allowed him loving boys and I wasn’t ready to tell Mom either.

Not worth fighting for.

Yet here I am, in the middle of Monterrey Castle in the pitch of dark, with Alexandre Arnoult in his bronze mask and black cloak, his painful weapon and his soft and gentle lips. His agile fingers that brought me to heaven. And he’s…fighting for me.

Right?

And I…

Opening my eyes, I stare up at him. His dark glare is already pointed at me, and all the earlier warmth has left his stare. His mouth, those lush, full, lips, are pressed firmly together.

Oh my god— “You didn’t like it?” I stammer.

He blinks, fluttering those gorgeous, black lashes of his, and his gaze softens. “There you are. I thought I’d lost you for a moment. What were you thinking of?” Sitting back, he pulls me in and flush against his chest, our legs a desperate tangle as we wrap them around our seated frames. Our necks are still tied together, although the string gives us enough space to move a little.

“Nothing,” I mumble. He hasn’t answered my question.

“Hm. Good. See those lights over there?” He points his chin over my shoulder and I turn back. Indeed, a bright light flickers like a beacon. Torches, like the ones that were placed along the trail before.

You are here for our entertainment, and entertained we shall be.

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