Page 4 of Her Beast

Brian gave a discontented whine but released him, his hot mouth moving to Malcolm’s sac, which he began to lick clean.

Malcolm drifted into a half-doze, lulled by the sensation of a soft, warm tongue caressing him.

“Mal?Mal?”

His fuzzy brain distantly registered the sound. “Huh?”

Malcolm forced up his heavy eyelids, grimacing as the room spun around him, slanting from side to side, his guts sloshing along with it.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, trying to shake away the fog. But moving his head only made his stomach pitch so he remained still, cudgeling his brain to remember what was going on.

Ah, yes, now he remembered: they’d been celebrating. With champagne.

Christ! Champagne always made him feel like shite, but this was… bad.

“Mal?” A hand rubbed his bare thigh. “You awake?”

The room was dim, but he could see Brian peering at him.

“Time?” he croaked.

“It’s after three. I’d better go if I’m leaving.”

Malcolm’s brain struggled to come up with an answer. Bri was leaving? But he lived there, didn’t he? Why was he—

“Mal?”

He must have fallen asleep again because the voice jolted him. His body was so bloody heavy.Soheavy.

Brian said something else but Malcolm just shook his head, and then grimaced at the lurching in his belly.

“—going now, Mal.”

“Yeah,” he slurred, sinking down and down into the welcoming darkness.

∞∞∞

Crack!

Malcolm’s eyes snapped open and he jerked upright in his chair.

Hot smoke seared his eyes and his lungs convulsed when he tried to breathe. He flung a hand over his mouth and squeezed his tearing eyes shut, struggling against a mental fug that was almost as thick as the one in the room.

One thought sliced through the confusion:Sukey!

Malcolm sucked in a lungful of air to call for his wife but doubled over as smoke scorched his throat and nose, his eyes steaming as he struggled for breath.

The air was slightly clearer closer to the floor so he sucked in a shallow breath. “Sukey!” he yelled. Except it wasn’t a yell, it was a scratchy whisper, like the sound of a leaf skittering over cobbles.

Still coughing, Malcolm lurched through the smoke, stumbling over bottles and clothing and furniture.

“Sukey!” he yelled. His voice was louder, but still inaudible above the roar of the train.

Train?

No, not the train… the fire.

Malcolm staggered around the smoke-filled room like the terrified drunk he was, flailing his limbs, his hands and fingers questing over chairs, settees, the desk surface—everywhere—seeking the warm living flesh of his wife.

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