Page 102 of Drawn By Dragonblood
He lifted his gaze from her face, the emotions in his eyes hitting me like a rush of wind and stealing my breath.
Goddamn him and whatever that energy was reaching out to me with desperation I couldn’t say no to.
His slow smile caused my dick to jerk in my hand. “Good morning.” The low rumble of his tone pebbled my skin. “Or should I say afternoon?”
I didn’t stand a fucking chance of preserving myself. Protecting myself from hurt.
Fuck if I was going to stop trying though.
At least he didn’t demand I crawl to him and sit at his feet like a trained dog while he fingered Dakota and enticed her body to climax all over his hand and slacks. I busted a nut at the same time as she did, my hand milking my shaft until my balls sagged in relief.
I swore to fucking God, Elijah’s good boy was whispered after in similar praise to my wife.
But I refused to acknowledge his words or how they swelled my chest with fulfillment and shit ton of pride over pleasing him.
An hour later, the chopper packed full with a bunch of our shit and a dozen or so bag of groceries including boxed mac and cheese at Elijah’s insistence, we headed back to the cavern for the rest of our four-week stay.
Elijah suggested we move into his room, and I carried our stuff there without bothering to double-check with Dakota. She wore her heart on her sleeve even if she glanced at me with a question in her eyes.
Settling into a routine came easily enough. We cooked together, showered together, slept together, Dakota more often than not a writhing, panting mess between us. Still, Elijah wouldn’t allow either of us another taste of his cum. He also didn’t try to fuck me again, and I couldn’t decide if I was thankful or pissed off about that fact.
Any kisses shared between the two of us weren’t the gentle sort but pure fucking war—and I refused to back down and melt at his touch as my body seemed desperate for.
The sexual tension swarming like hornets in the tech room while working raised the hairs on my neck, heightened my pulse to the point of needing to talk myself out of hyperventilating and panting for my boss on a daily basis.
Elijah had said I would pay for coming without permission that night in New York, and every heated glance, every stare that singed my skin, promised he would hold true to his word.
So what the fuck was he waiting for?
Me to ask for his undivided attention?
Not happening.
I dreamed of the dungeon. The cross. The chains dangling from the ceiling and the cane that would probably hurt like a goddamn son of a bitch. Desire to kneel at his feet and beg for him to hurt me—love me—had me hard as a rock more often than not. I jerked off more than a horny teenager in the bathroom, and I swear to fucking God that Elijah could tell I didn’t gift him those orgasms. Like he could smell the cum on me even though I cleaned up thoroughly every time, his knowing stare promised I would pay.
Coming without his permission haunted my mind but fuck if I could stop.
No amount of burying myself in Dakota’s ass, pussy, or throat eased the ache inside me. Like a darkness leaching into my soul, a hazy sheen of something latched onto my innermost being, demanding I soothe its need with whispered pleadings in a voice I didn’t fully recognize as my own.
What was that all-important piece, what link that would set my world right again, the same as it was when I’d first met Dakota? Had meeting Ashley caused the unrest? Did Elijah’s continued show of dominance in his steady stare? The idea of leaving him and his lair fucked with my reality to the point I didn’t consider it any further.
What part of the puzzle that would make sense of everything in my head was I missing?
Two long-ass motherfucking weeks, and no amount of beer, good wine, fucking, or pouring myself into my job eased the unrest beneath my skin.
Elijah had disappeared an hour into the workday, the tension snapping between us probably finally catching up to him.
Dakota had gone off down the mountainside, camera in hand, to get some images for a newly contracted White Mountains travel brochure, and I slaved away, putting the latest robot model to the test in its seventh or eighth different suit of armor. My eyes burned. Throat itched. Backside fucking ached from sitting on the goddamned chair for too long.
Tossing the controller onto the desk, I sat back and pinched the bridge of my nose.
Something had to give.
“Can’t fucking do this anymore,” I muttered to myself and shot up from the desk, stalking out the door. The hallway lay empty, and no sounds rose from the garage or stairs leading to the upper floors.
Like a string tied to my head and tugged, my gaze swiveled toward the door directly across from me. My hand lifted before I thought, punching in the key code same as I’d done supernaturally once before. The lock clicked, and I pushed inward.
Soft light rose, and I stepped over the threshold.
