Page 91 of Rok's Captive
The image is so sudden, so startling, I almost fall to my knees. Another pulse of heat goes through me, making my stem twitchhard. Is that how we are to join? I’d never considered using my stem in such a way with my brothers. But then again, I’ve never had these urges before. Not until her.
And now that I know this new purpose…what she needs…
Oh, the thought.
A grunt escapes my throat as I fist my new stem harder.
“Rok,” she says, her voice sharp, but there’s a tremor in it that betrays her. She makes a sound in her throat, forcing her gaze back to my face. “Focus, okay? Can you…can you put it away or not?”
I shake my head the way she does. “No,” I say simply. One of her words. Awkward but clear.
Her hands fly into the air. “Of course not. Suddenly grow a big fat raging cock after scaring me to death that you’re dying, andthentell me that weapon of pussy destruction cannot be disarmed.”
Pussy?
What is a pussy?
The images are coming too fast. I can hardly make sense of what these vocalizations mean. But then there’s the image of her slit again, warm and wet and dripping. Sheathed over my stem.
I groan.
Her pussy. Yes.
She plants her hands on her hips, glaring at me. “Okay, fine. I’ll fix this. Just…stay there.”
She turns in a slow circle, scanning the chamber, her expression thoughtful. I tilt my head, curious despite the need coursing through me and culminating in my rigid shaft.
“Right,” she mutters to herself, as if coming to a decision. “I know what to do.”
Before I can ask—or think—what she means, she reaches for her leg coverings.
She strips them off in one quick motion, leaving her legs bare, and I feel my body react instantly.
The sight of her exposed skin, the smooth curves of her thighs, the way the light catches on her soft flesh—it’s almost too much.
My stem…mycock—as she called it—hardens further, the ache intensifying, and I let out a low growl, unable to suppress the sound.
She doesn’t notice.
Or if she does, she ignores it.
Instead, she picks up a jagged-edged stone and uses it to tear the hide of her coverings into two flat panels. Soon, she’s only wearing half of it, her legs deliciously bare.
“These might…” She pauses, glancing at me nervously. “These might help.”
She approaches slowly, the makeshift hide in hand, her gaze determinedly fixed on my face.
When she reaches me, her hands tremble slightly as she presses the fabric against my lap, tying it in place with quick, efficient movements.
Her nearness is electric.
Her touch is even more so.
I can feel the heat of her hands through the thin fabric, can smell the faint, intoxicating scent of her skin.
Her fingers brush against me accidentally—light, fleeting—and it takes everything in me not to groan aloud.
“Okay,” she says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “That should—” She stops abruptly, her gaze flickering downward, and her face reddens again.
