Page 198 of Monsters in Love: Lost in the Underworld

The whining noises that escape us both reverberate around the room, and the desk begins to squeak beneath us. My every limb and muscle aches for release, but permission to come hasn’t been uttered from Aamon’s lips yet. I desire him to give me the permission and satisfaction; I ache for it. As my cock twitches and my body grows taut, his does as well. I know our release is at its tipping point.

Aamon grabs my head so roughly that his cock buries itself in the back of my throat, and, as I choke, he groans out the words I have prayed for: “Come for me!”

All at once, his body, mine and each tentacle pulse in complete tandem. Cum shoots down the back of my throat just as the sensation of my own orgasm racks through my spine, coatingmy stomach. I choke as I try to swallow, but I am too full of him. His seed leaks around him, out of my mouth and down my chin in sticky globs.

I expect a quick exit once his release has come, though I am decidedly surprised that he gently leaves my mouth first, setting my head down with care. His body is still hovering over mine, but finally I can peer into his golden eyes, relishing the pure, sated joy on his face. Then his tentacles slowly leave my body, whispering against my skin until they retreat back into the ether from which they came.

“Good boy,” Aamon whispers. There is compassion in his tone and in the careful way his hands slowly lift me from the hard tabletop into his muscular arms. “Let me draw you a bath, and then you must rest.”

If this is what exchanging mana means, then surely I would wish to do so as often as possible.

Aamon

The airin the study is stifling, with remnants of Thorne’s scent and mine mingling into a thick perfume. I hadn’t intended on being so accommodating to him after sating each other’s sexual urges. As I carried his fragile mortal body to the bath, a tenuous thread of awareness dawned. Thorne requires protection from this brutal, destructive hellscape that I command. There is a necessity to protect him from me as well. There is no hope for his soul if he remains here tied to me.

My feet burn holes in the marble floor while pacing back and forth. Anxiety is an emotion I have felt very little of in eons. It courses through my body, causing my heart to beat furiously against my ribs. Iftheyrealize Thorne is here, thentheywill surely steal him from me, coercing him into a pact with them as a means to exert control over the continuous thorn in their side that I’ve become.

“Berkley,” I whisper, urging the imp to my side.

I’m unsurprised to hear thepopas he appears at the edge of my desk, his tail pointed upright, flicking happily. “Yes, my lord?”

I pause my restless marching, allowing myself to inhale deeply as the weight of my decision settles on me “Berkley, we need to devise a scheme to get the mortal to break our pact. I’ve been menacing, and still he shows no fear of me.” There is no doubt my closest confidant will aid me in creating the perfect plot.

“Sir, if I may be honest with you for a moment. I believe you may need to tell him the truth of things.” Berkley perches himself upon the desk, where my scattered papers are neatly stacked as though nothing was amiss. “Eventually, Lilith and Luce will know he’s here—if they don’t already. The pact already tarnishes his soul. He is a lost cause, and we may as well say a prayer for him now.”

A burning ember of rage simmers in my belly, though I know Berkley is only baiting me. He likely suspects I have developed feelings for Thorne and has pieced together that I have watched his family for some time. Agatha would never forgive me if I allowed her grandson to come to harm.

My fingers pinch at the bridge of my nose, stifling the rise of a migraine from consuming my head in a vise grip. “You know aswell as I do that they knew the moment he set foot here. It’s only a matter of time before they show their ugly faces here on my doorstep demanding I hand him over.”

Berkley nods, twisting his mouth in thought. “I believe we need to have him watch you murder someone for crossing you. We can command some of the managers of the casinos to play along. If he sees how formidable you can be without all the kink involved, he could be persuaded.”

Pinning him with a glare, I roll my eyes as he comments on my sexual proclivities even if I know without a doubt he’s right. Thorne and I are both linked by our emotions, and it grows by the day. “I can be quite menacing if I truly want to be.”

“Pfftt.” Berkley snorts, his squawking laugh echoing through the room. “Sorry—sorry. It’s just, of course you can, if it's truly needed, but we both know it's all for show.”

“Get to work, Berkley. I want to have this little show tonight before dinner.”

A serious mask falls over the imp’s face as he nods curtly in agreement. “Yes, sir.”

His resounding exit is the last thing I hear as I shake the final vestiges of anxiety from my limbs. This will surely work. I have to place my faith in those I command to play their part. This mortal’s soul is on the line, and the imps know this is no place to be damned. My only hope is that this deters Thorne from continuing down this path of no return.

Hawthorne

“Come,the master desires your audience in the throne room.” Berkley beckons me down the long corridor, past the study, where just hours before Aamon used my body in ways I may never fully recover from.

The imp transported himself into the bedroom, violently shaking me awake, demanding I dress myself immediately. I tossed pillows at him, grumbling as I burrowed deeper into the mattress. But he was persistent.

Bewildered and still shaking off the last remnants of sleep, I struggle to put one foot in front of the other. What could be so urgent?

Berkley pauses in front of large onyx marble doors adorned with swirling filigree designs and two large shining golden handles that reach higher than his head. He stretches on his tiptoes, pulling them open with a grunt of exertion.

The massive throne room is teeming with the whispers of a myriad of imps of all colors, sizes and shapes. Their voices resonate and echo around the room as they talk amongst themselves. Ahead is an enormous throne made of tourmaline rock, littered with hundreds of skulls at its base.

Aamon sits upon the throne with an imposing and authoritative air, as expected of a marquis of Hell. He pins me with his gaze in a silent regard as I’m led through the throng of whispering subjects.

Berkley ascends the stairs backward, maintaining his eyes on the crowd until reaching the landing, where, with a snap of his fingers, a long parchment unfurls from his hands. The chatter ceases immediately in hushed murmurs until it’s silenced with one brutal glare from the marquis.

“Argus and Tamil, please step forward to state your concern,” Berkley confidently says. This is perhaps the only moment I’ve seen the butler sound so assured.

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