Page 37 of The Librarian of Souls
On stage, the heavy curtains begin to open and the orchestra plays a sultry melody. Augustine’s hands touch me everywhere except my skin. One grips my thigh in earnest to keep me anchored to his lap, the black talon-tipped finger splayed across my hips. The other runs up and down my spine, from the curve of my ass to the top of the zipper on my dress. My knees press together, and I do my best to focus, but the goosebumps on my flesh and thrumming heat between my legs and on my neck make it so very difficult.
Beautiful people in beautiful makeup and gowns sing songs that make my head float. They dance seductively across the stage in patterns that make my eyes feel heavy. Augustine slides my wine glass into my hand, refilled with wine from the bottle he ordered for us. The flavour tastes newer, headier on my tongue now. A small droplet leaks from the corner of my mouth. Just when I feel the embarrassment tighten in my chest, fingers grip my chin and draw me in.
He licks the wine from my mouth before his tongue plunges past my lips, and all I taste is honey. Lusty, heady honey that sends me reeling into sweet oblivion. I am lost to everything but the feeling of Augustine. He breaks the kiss softly, teasing the corner of my mouth with another before gripping both my hips. In one sure motion, I am straddling his thigh and my back rests against his chest. He hooks his chin over my shoulder, the wide split of his mouth and moustache tickling the heated skin of my neck right over where my mark will go.Permanent, forever, eternity.
“Watch the show, mon abeille, do not take your eyes off it until intermission.” Augustine’s husky voice washes over me.
I nod, muscles in my thighs relaxing and the hem of my dress rising obscenely. There is no fear that we will be seen. Like everyone else in the theatre tonight, we are entranced by the performance on stage. For a few moments, his hands remain on my hips. Those strong fingers dig into my soft flesh and I sigh. Throughout the meal, I’ve felt the heat of the bond. It’s simmering under the surface, but now it’s threatening to boil over. I do my best to focus, for the performers on stage are magnificent. They deserve my attention.
But just as my guard relaxes, the hands so innocently resting at my sides begin to move. It starts with his thumbs massaging soothing circles into my low back. They dig into knots I didn’t even know I had. I bite my lip to keep the moan I want to release in. I melt further into my boogeyman until I am laying on him more than anything.
“I can do that,” Augustine whispers, just as a dancer in very high heels does a fancy kick.
I am so lost in thinking about just how flexible he can be, that when I am lifted ever so slightly, a squeal comes out of me. My hand slaps over my mouth and heat rushes to my cheeks. Augustine arranges me over his lap so his two thighs are now between mine, keeping me spread so far open that if anyone looks into our box, they will know what’s happening.
My breath stalls in my throat. I could be seen, we could be seen, and it makes my belly swoop with desire at the very thought. Augustine doesn’t care if we are seen together; I am worth the risk to him. My clit throbs and my head swells at all the thoughts floating around it.
His hands go back to my hip, holding me steadily to his warm body. For as tall as he is, I am still much wider. My body practically swallows him up in the chair, but I can’t find that I care. If he didn’t want me this way, he would have placed me somewhere different.
I could be on my knees between his spread thighs, with his collar of sand decorating my neck and his clawed hand massaging my scalp while his cock stretches my throat. I could be worshipping my monster. The thought makes my pussy throb. I want to do that, to show Augustine how well I can serve him if he were to ask.
A hand slides across the expanse of my stomach until it just rests under one of my breasts.
“Mon abeille, you are not thinking of the show, are you?”
He kisses my throat, right on the epicentre of all the heat, and I turn to putty. Something inside me feels on fire and alive, and I squirm in Augustine’s hold. With every beat of my heart, I swear it is saying more, more.
“Will you give me your honey?” His teeth, razor-sharp now, drag across the column of my throat to my ear. “In front of this audience, will you let me serve you, my queen?”
My skin erupts in goosebumps. I should say no, absolutely not when we are in public. I am tipsy, to say the least, and have already indulged so much tonight. This sort of dalliance will get us put on a list if we are caught.
Fuck it.I am going to indulge, be a gluttonous creature that I have always tried not to be.
“Own me,” I say.
I have pleaded, and moaned, and whispered those words so many times in my dreams. But never have I said them with such command. Augustine hums against my skin, and his hand leaves my hip. I feel the creep grain by grain across my exposed shoulder until it delicately circles my neck like a fine gold chain would. I whimper and my eyes close, ready for the teasing and pleasure.
“Keep enjoying the show, mon abeille. It’s very good.” He sounds smug, like he has read me like one of his books. He knows how my mind swims and sweetens for him, how hard it is for me to focus on anything but the pleasure.
My eyes snap to the stage just as a single claw trails a path from my knee to my dress, pulling the material up to my hips. My beige shapewear shines a little under the light reflecting from the stage.
“I love your form, Joanna, how the universe has filled and stretched your skin to perfection. I don’t want you to wear these for me or because you feel you must.”
His finger moves to my inner thigh and the sharp talon snags on the seam.
“But if you, and only you, want to wear them. I will accept that.” He continues. For some reason, that makes my heart flutter. A soft, gooeyness sticks in my throat. “It does just mean I will have to tease you through these, and you will not get to feel my fingers in your perfect cunt.”
My heart stops, my thighs try to squeeze together. Below us, the orchestra crashes and pulses as the music begins to build again.
“Ruin them,” I whisper, my hands searching for something to grab onto, for him.
Just as my fingers wrap around the wrist on my sternum, sands envelop them, locking me to Augustine. Sands grip my ankles and keep them secure on the floor. The single claw between my thighs slices each centre stitch, one by one. Each snag a point of relief from the tight confines of my shapewear.
“The taste of your arousal is going to drive me mad, mon abeille. Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks, his speech slowing, punctuated with deep inhales. “How my control just vanished the moment I stepped onto that beach with you?”
I shake my head, and make a little noise of denial as I feel the cool air hit my damp, swollen flesh. My pussy clenches around nothing when even the subtle pressure from Augustine’s finger disappears.
“It was like that first taste of cool water after wandering the desert for days. But I did not have an inkling that I was doing without. For eighteen months, I have had little drops and dribbles of your sweet nectar.”
