Page 11 of Goblin Candy

Muttering a curse under my breath, I back up a step and pull my claws free.

Or rather… I try to.

Every single claw pops from the raked furrows except for the smallest finger on my right hand. It catches as I turn to flee, stopping my getaway as effectively as a noose around my neck. I bite back a yelp as I’m jerked to such a sudden halt that my feet come close to coming out from under me and my head whips around in shock to stare at the offending digit.

A nervous bubble of laughter climbs up my throat at my predicament. I can hear my mate’s steps getting closer, and here I am, a hunter clearly not clever enough to not get caught in a trap of my own making. I work my claw back and forth to loosen it from the wood. Another point that I will be certain to regale my kin with when we meet. The irony will delight them.

Her footsteps come closer, and I give my claw a harder wiggle. My lips pull back in a silent snarl as I glare at the uncooperative claw. Just as I reach for the blade tucked at my waist with an idea to break the tip with the blade’s hard edge, my claw pops free, sending me stumbling backward and toppling over the back of the railing.

Thankfully, I only drop a short distance before I grab the metal railing on the balcony just below hers, a soft hiss of discomfort escaping at the contact of iron against my bare skin. I bite any further noise, however, and still as I peer up at the cracks of the wooden boards above me, watching Candy’s shadow reluctantly move from the apartment and pass overhead. Her steps are slow and measured—cautious even—which makes me exceptionally proud to call her mine. Even more so when I see that part of her shadow swings out from her body with considerably more length than the reach of her hand and I realize that she’s armed.

A grin splits my face. Excellent! She is no fool to rush out into a potentially dangerous situation.

She turns above me, and I note the exact moment she spots my marks. Her breathing becomes more rapid—she’s not only scenting the air but is drawing in huge lungfuls as if starving for it. Her soft moan nearly undoes me with the realization of just how strongly my pheromones are affecting her, and my aching cock demands that I climb back up and close the distance separating us.

She whispers to herself about caramel apples, but I don’t think she even realizes that she’s speaking aloud, and I can practically taste the dew of her skin on my tongue as her breath stutters in evidence of a small shiver. She is clearly reacting to my pheromones, and I wonder if caramel apples are how she identifies the scent. Having eaten a share of caramel and candy apples in my time, my cock twitches as just how much her mouth might water for me. Perhaps equal to my own reaction to her since a rich spiced chocolate is imprinted into her scent so deeply that I could spend hours licking her.

We could lick each other. I’m certainly not averse to the idea. I might even allow her to experiment with caramel on me if she allows me to slather her in chocolate so I can savor every taste and flavor.

I palm my cock and silently groan. I need to stop thinking in this direction.

Candy moves closer to my marks, step by slow step, her pants becoming sharper by the second. Would she be receptive to me if I showed myself now and made my claim? It is no less than a fairy would do, but it hardly seems sporting to not give her at least a chance to rebel and flee—to prolong the game.

Still, my ache burrows deeper into me, affecting my judgment. It whispers temptations that may frighten her or exhilarate her… perhaps both. But now is not the time. I’ve fulfilled my purpose and our date is tomorrow. Then I will tempt us both and see how far I can press my hunt.

I grin up at the deck above me wolfishly as her footsteps trail back inside and the door slides back into place. Now that she is safe inside, I vault over the railing and work my way down with light little leaps until my feet hit the paved ground. I allow myself one last longing look toward the light glowing from her window but then force my muscles to move as I run.

And I do run. I bound through the streets as fast as my feet can take me. But there is no outrunning temptation. When I return to my room, I’m harder than ever, precum pearling at the tip of my cock. Never have I wished more for the ability so many other species enjoy being able to bring about their own release.

It is with a pained, and quite dissatisfied, snarl that I burrow into my blankets and seek refuge from the torments of this night. And pray to the Old Ones that the hunt goes well tomorrow.

CHAPTER9

CANDY

Idon’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s just a date, and I’ve been on numerous dates over the years. Good ones, bad ones, some that ended up being nothing more than a booty call because the guy was fine but had the personality of a cockroach or we simply didn’t connect further than a one-night stand. It may in part have something to do with the fact that this is my first date with a fae.

“I just don’t know. Should I wear something special?” I shout across the room. “Is he going to expect me to look sexy as hell for a movie night instead of wearing comfy leggings and a tee?”

I have plenty of cute outfits, but not one of them screams comfortable evening of snacks and binge-watching scary movies.

“I couldn’t say,” Lottie answers through the speakerphone tossed onto my bed. “Are we talking long term relationship aspirations, or an evening of fun?”

“There’s a difference?” I reply as I pull out a short black dress with spiders woven into the lace along the collar and squint at it speculatively.

I don’t date with the intent of merely looking for a hookup, even if that occasionally happens. And Lottie knows that by now. Every date is with the goal of finding “the one.”

“You know what I mean,” she huffs with a tiny laugh. “Do you want to set him on fire for you and then see how he reacts to the trainwreck you wear over morning coffee, or do you want him to get a glimpse of the real deal from the start?”

My lips quirk. Only Lottie would call my ratty Friday the 13thsleep shirt that I wear with a pair of soft, stretchy shorts a trainwreck. It’s not even my only sleep shirt, though the horror motif runs strong and none of them are particularly new. I bite my lip thoughtfully. Perhaps she has a point. Kyle never liked my collection of horror, occult humor, and metal band tees and would bitch if I wore anything less than what he considered sexy.

And just look how that turned out.

“All right, consider me sold. Comfy it is. If he can’t attempt to put his hand up my shirt when I’m wearing Night of the Living Dead, then he’s not the one for me.”

“That a girl,” Lottie chuckles.

A smile spread across my face at her encouragement. “Love you. Wish me luck!”

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