Page 46 of The Howling
I don’t move away.
“How can I make you sure?” Reavely rumbles, his deep voice going straight to my lady parts. “Because I want you, Wynter. I need you. I will make you mine.”
I shouldn’t be crumbling. I shouldn’t be looking. I should be running.
“And if you run,” Reavely rasps, as if he can read my mind, “I will enjoy the chase.”
“And what…” My throat is dry, my voice hoarse. “And what happens if you catch me?”
My stomach is in my mouth, and it’s not fear I’m feeling, not like before, not with the musk and spicy scent of Reavely, his nakedness, the proximity of his enormous cock which I can’t possibly ignore. His arousal fuelling mine.
“Pleasure.”
The word sends a spike of lust from my toes to the ends of my hair. Reavely uses his huge clawed finger to tilt my chin up, lifting my gaze away from his enormous appendage and up to his burning eyes.
“Run,” he growls.
My legs do not need telling twice. I drop the throw and scamper away, unsure of whether he’s going to come after me or not.
But this run is my decision. This time it belongs to me, not something imposed.
What Reavely is going to do to me once he catches me, I do not know.
I want to find out. Once he catches me.
And he will have to catch me first.
REAVELY
She ran, the scent of arousal causing my prick to spill a glob of seed onto the floor. Female Barghest always took their mates on a merry dance, and it seems my Wynter is no different to any female, despite her diminutive size.
This little female can certainly move, and she’s wearing a garment I have seen before. A garment which clings to her every curve as she streaks away. Something I am going to enjoy removing, hopefully with my teeth.
Providing I can catch her.
Of course I can catch her. But where’s the fun if I catch her straight away? Some Barghest males spend hours chasing their females. Those couples are usually not seen again for many days.
I want to be like them. I want to have my little deer until neither of us can move. Then I want her all over again.
My prick throbs as I stalk the passages of my castle, scenting the air for her arousal, the one which was oh-so-evident as she attempted to escape me.
She will not escape. Wynter will be mine.
I round the corner. There is a swish of fabric, although not from her dress, and my keen ear picks up the sound of her barefeet on the stone flags. My heart increases its thumping in my chest, my blood hot, my jaws filled with fangs.
I have only hunted souls for so long. Hunting this delicious creature is something else indeed.
I pad on in the direction of her footsteps, the occasional brief whiff of her reaching me. When I let out a long, low growl, the scent increases exponentially.
This little female wants to be caught and mated. My prick is achingly hard, needing to be inside her, sheathed and spilling my seed.
All of which will have to wait until I track her down.
A tinkle of metal on stone has me spinning on the spot. I thought I was close, but it seems somehow, despite not knowing my castle, she has given me the slip.
Not for long.
I shift into my black dog form and make use of all my senses, the way I can hear her heart beating, the tiny thing so fast I can’t believe it can sustain her. Her breathing is quick, needy, breathless. Her feet are swift on the flags.
