Page 10 of Goblin Candy

Plucking up the remote, I pull up the menu on the TV and locate my movie of choice. Cue the opening score and I’m wrapping up in my throw blanket decorated with dancing skeletons, blindly dragging my snacks closer since I’m that quickly absorbed into the cinematography. Sexy parts aside, the movie is beautiful and delights the dark corners of my soul. Riveted, I scoop up a handful of popcorn and stuff my cheeks full. I’m so absorbed in the beautiful film unfolding and Jonathan Harker’s seduction by the vampiresses that I almost miss the soft scratching followed by a clatter from outside my apartment. I freeze, a licorice whip poised halfway to my mouth, and cock my head.

Call me paranoid, but any sort of strange sound coming from outside my apartment balcony is enough to distract me from vampire smut fuel. I give a regretful look to the TV before picking up my baseball bat from where it leans against the wall and skulk over toward the balcony glass door.

I reach one hand toward the floor-length curtain that covers the glass, every muscle in my body tense. I curl my fingers around a handful of fabric at the corner and rip the curtain back, my arm holding my bat raising defensively. I blink and stare out at the dark emptiness outside my window. There is nothing there.

I frown as I unlock the glass door and slide it open. It squeals slightly, sending a nervous tremor through me, but when nothing jumps out at me, I step out onto the porch. The decadent scent of caramel apples fills my nose immediately, and for a moment I just stand there, drinking it in. Is a neighbor making a Halloween treat? My mouth waters slightly because this smells better than any caramel apple I’ve ever tasted, and I’ve bought the fancy-pants caramel apples that the grocery store likes to charge an arm and a leg for this time of the year. I turn in a slow circle, greedily sucking in the scent.

Where is it coming from? I turn back toward the door, tempted to go upstairs and see if Mrs. Krealy is up there making treats, but jump at the sight of long, deep furrows carved into the outside wall. I stare at them, my heart thumping fiercely. This is definitely new. They weren’t out here when I was standing in this same spot enjoying my coffee this morning. I creep toward them, the caramel apple smell growing stronger and I realize that the scent is not coming from another apartment but from the marks themselves. It permeates them, and a shiver runs through me as I stare at those gouges.

I feel as if I’m being stalked, but rather than frighten me, my blood pumps with unfettered excitement. It’s not a normal reaction—even for me—but for whatever reason I’m aroused rather than terrified. There is a slight tingle of apprehension with the unknown element, but that seems to excite me even further. Last I checked, I didn’t have any stalker fantasies. I don’t find that crap remotely flattering and am the first to advocate for restraining orders. But this feels different. Perhaps it is because of the scent permeating the air around the marks strikes a note of being something “right” to me. That’s the only way I can explain it. It feels like another hand of fate interrupting the order of my life.

Thank the gods!

After a series of bad relationships, Kyle being the most recent and longest lasting at just a few months, I’m more than ready for a fated mate to be dropped in front of me.

I grin as I whirl about, scanning the surrounding darkness. This part of the street has few streetlamps, and none of them are strong enough to illuminate the small, maintained patch of grass and paved parking areas around the apartment complex. Although it’s too dark to see, I stand there for several minutes, hoping that he shows himself.

Is it my goblin?

I don’t recall him smelling of anything like caramel apples, but I’m not altogether ready to dismiss it, maybe because I really hope it is him. Still, I can’t help but to feel a little disappointed when my mystery guest fails to step out into the light, leaving me alone and cold on that porch for several minutes before I return inside.

Dropping back down onto the couch, I try to rouse my enthusiasm for the romantic courtship between Dracula and Mina, but I’m far too distracted. So much so that when the garden scene of monsterly loving happens, I’m not even paying attention to it.

Instead, I’m consumed with thoughts of that incredibly delicious scent and thoughts of the goblin staring down at me with burning eyes. As I stare vacantly at the screen, it is he, not the man-wolf creature, who I see, and my breath escapes me in a soft pant of anticipation as I imagine the lean muscle of his green torso straining beneath the moonlight as he arches over me. This ismuchbetter.

The image fabricated in my mind is so delicious that my fingers slip into my pajama pants and brush over my folds, finding them slick and ready. I’m intensely aroused in a way that wouldn’t otherwise be. I’ve certainly never been inspired to put my hands down my pants while watching this movie before. Appreciation for the erotic art in my current mood is one thing, but this is entirely different. This is all for Grimsal and what he’s doing to be me in my head as the picture on the TV fades into the background.

I trace my fingers back and forth, adding more pressure with each pass as I stroke myself, sliding the V of my fingers back and forth along both sides of my clit faster and faster. I moan softly and lift my hips, straining against my touch. I imagine he’s rutting me on a garden bench beneath the moonlight, our bodies tangled together. In my imagination he snarls passionately into my ear as he thrusts deep and my release uncoils, snapping through me with a hot release that draws a soft cry of completion from me.

It is not enough. My body hums with hunger, demanding more, but I pull my hand free of my waistband and curl tighter into the blanket.

My heart is hammering against my chest, tapping out a rhythm that feels more like a summoning—a calling to my other half. After that orgasm, I should have been satisfied for at least a little while. The fact that I’m not tells me all I need to know about how effective any further efforts to satisfy my need will be. I have a feeling that there is only one who can do that job—and he’s conveniently absent when I need him.

Another soft moan leaves me as I rub my thighs together, and it’s followed by the smaller whimper that subsequently follows. The lust I felt before seems like nothing compared to this burning need. It isn’t painful, but it is a constant humming pleasure beneath my skin that could easily grow maddening after a while. Whoever marked my door is not here to help me with it now, but he better not stay away for long.

Groaning, I flop back into the couch and turn up the volume a little more, with a small prayer for a distraction. This exquisite torture can only go on for so long before it’s no longer fun and games. I would hate to begin a fated mating by murdering the male destined for me.

CHAPTER8

GRIMSAL

Istare through the crack in the window. I’m certain that I’m breaking all kinds of human etiquette, but this is just common sense of the hunt. I have to make certain that this is the right place, after all. I didn’t expect to see the heated tension of the movie my mate watches, and for a moment I’m captivated by the exchange of the characters before I’m able to rouse myself with a brisk shake of my head.

Already my pheromones are pumping, producing at a heightened rate in response to the hunt. I run my tongue over my teeth as I pull back from the glass door and try to ignore the tantalizing aroma of my mate and her home drifting out to me. I don’t want to simply leave my mark—I want to claw my way through the barrier separating us and claim my mate. Somehow, I manage to restrain myself and just dig my claws into the side of the wall, tearing through the wood as I leave my pheromone marker from the scent-secreting glands embedded beneath my claws.

Of all my scent glands, it is the simplest to use when it comes to this specific task. Goblins are fortunate to have several scent glands, many of which are involved in scenting a mate. Aside from the ones beneath my claws, I have another beneath my tongue that mixes with my saliva, and the tiny bumpy glands that run up the base of my cock. While there have been instances of males who have rubbed their erect cocks on their would-be mate’s home, I prefer not to be caught out here with my pants down should someone investigate.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t leave my mark long and deep.

I grin to myself as I drag the claws of both hands down the side of the door. The deeper and more impressive the mark, the stronger the dose of pheromones to warn off other males… and the more desirable it will be to the female, at least in goblin culture. Though Candy is likely not to understand my effort, should the tale of our mate hunt come up, I want her to be able to recollect to the deep furrows I left to honor her.

Those who know, would know.

My tail whips with excitement as I drag my claws lower, but as I shift my weight, the angle of my tail shifts and I feel it collide with a hard surface, sending it clattering into the metal railing behind it. I stiffen, my eyes darting toward what little I can see of my mate through the curtain. Did she hear it?

I hazard a quick glance behind me, shooting a murderous look at my tail, before glancing over at the object I hit. A ceramic pot on an iron stand sits unobtrusively in the corner of the balcony’s metal lattice and at just the right height to be struck by an erratic tail swing. I hiss in annoyance, but my ears twitch as I hear the soft creak of someone standing inside.

Risking another peek, I see that Candy is now standing and frowning in my direction. She shifts her weight quietly on her adorably clad feet. With her dark hair spilling around her shoulders, one shoulder bare from the angle of the oversized shirt draped over her curvy frame, she commands my attention to such a degree that I nearly forget that I’m not supposed to be caught there.

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