Chapter Twenty-Two

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

She kind of believed that Seth was messing with her when he pointed out a place to land. Because as far as she could see, there wasn't any building in sight. Just a great, grassy hill, like a giant's knee, surrounded at its base by trees. Though she listened anyway, and began to urge the car down. She pressed on the brakes, and the thing started drifting toward the crest of the hill.

But that didn't get the response from Seth she expected.

"No god, not in the middle," he gasped, and grabbed the wheel to steer her toward the trees. And it was only once they were safely on the ground, nestled between two oak trees, that he sighed with relief, and tried to explain. "Sorry, I should have been clearer. The house isn't actually here."

"Well, then, why are we landing? And what did you panic for?"

"Because I meant that you just can't see it."

"So you're saying it's invisible."

He made a not really face as she turned off the engine. "Kind of. It's more like it exists somewhere else, but it can be accessed from our world. So that's what we all call it: the House That Isn't Here. Supernatural creatures and beings use it as a kind of meeting place. Sometimes they might live here for a time. A few have offices here, storage rooms, that kind of thing," he said, at which point Cassie thought two things: you really should have told me about the interdimensional building before I plunged us into total spooky darkness , and oh my god are we going in there to steal from Cthulhu?

"So the stuff we're going to get belongs to someone?"

"It does. But don't worry. We can write an IOU."

"That sounds dubious in the extreme," she said.

And Pod seemed to agree from the back seat. No go, no go , she heard him say. Seth had to hiss at him to shush—and he did. But only after she reached back and held his little hand. And after he'd called Seth an ugly beefhead .

Which made her have to smother a giggle, as Seth sighed heavily and tried to continue. "I promise it's not. An offer like that from a witch is worth a lot."

"Yeah, I can imagine it is if they're gonna ask me to make them a death ray."

"They're not gonna ask that. It's up to you to decide what you give in return."

"That seems like a weird system. I could give them a fart in a jar."

"Are you going to, though?" He glanced at her through the darkness. She knew he did, because his eyes gleamed just a lit tle more than usual. They looked like mirrors catching light that wasn't actually there; like glass at the bottom of a deep lake. Beautiful , she thought, and promptly forgot what she was supposed to be saying.

She had to fumble her way back to it, through a sudden wave of that syrupy feeling. But she got there, she got there. She felt the answer to what he'd asked, sure as anything: no, what I give in return will instinctively be commensurate.

"Okay, good point," she said. Then, after a beat: "So I guess if there isn't going to be a problem, we should just do this."

"Yup. Nothing to do now but get out of the car and go in there."

"Right. Cool. After you, then."

She got another look. But this one was less beautiful wolf and more little shit .

"Scared to go first, huh?" he said, with just a hint of laughter in his voice. Because of course he knew what all the stalling was about. Of course he did.

"Well, if I do, I might bang into a mailbox from another dimension."

"You won't. You'll feel the presence of the house before that happens."

"That's not reassuring, Seth."

"It doesn't need to be if I'm leading," he said.

Then he just got out of the car and strode across the frost-tipped grass, fast enough that she started to fear he would get too far ahead. That she wouldn't be able to see how he'd dissolved through some magic wall, and she'd end up trapped out here in the dark. He'll notice I'm not with him just as an interdimensional beast grabs his face, and all I'll be able to do is hear his screams for help across the void , she thought, as she told Pod to stay, and scrambled after Seth.

She stumbled over the grass, calling his name. Then felt very silly when she got to where he stood, and he lifted a hand and knocked on the air, and a door swung open. Just like that. One second there was nothing but the slope downward and the forest beyond; the next there was a rectangle of a very particular sort of light.

A golden, glowing, slightly flickering light, that made her think of gas lamps.

And that was exactly what lay beyond the now-visible threshold of the door. A row of them, mounted on the walls of a cozy-looking but mind-bendingly long hall. The door at the end of that hall should lead off the edge of the hill , she thought, half marveling, half terrified.

While Seth just strolled right in.

She watched him wipe his high-top sneakers on the mat, inside the door. The one that said WELCOME , and looked worn—like something an old lady might put down. And the rest of the decor had a similar vibe. The carpet was patterned with curling roses; the wallpaper had stripes below the chair rail, and a floral motif above.

Then further down she could see pictures, between each door.

Portraits, of what looked like the ancestors of a person she hoped didn't exist.

"Are you sure no one owns this place?" she asked, as she tiptoed far enough in to examine one of them. A painting of a woman in Edwardian clothes, expression stern, one hand on the shoulder of a small, wan-looking child.

But Seth didn't seem concerned.

He made his way down the hall, answering her over his shoulder.

"Some think it belonged to a person once. A witch who got lost, or who lost her own home. But even if that's the case, she's gone now. She has to be, because there'd be at least some wards left here if she were alive."

"But there's nothing?"

"Not a thing."

Still, Cassie couldn't help wondering. About who that witch was, and if she had died a good death or a bad one. This is serious business , she thought, as she turned to see where Seth had gotten to. And found him very unseriously trying to spring the lock of the tenth door down the hall.

He was using a frigging Blockbuster card.

She didn't even know how he still had one.

"So I guess now I know that goblin poop isn't your only source of income," she said as she strolled up to him. And he didn't even have the decency to look shamefaced. He look positively gleeful. He actually had his tongue in his cheek.

"Cassie, I hope you're not implying I regularly steal from rich pricks. Because I will have you know, I am a moral and upstanding citizen, and would never. In fact, I barely even know how to do such things," he said, and on that last word he shoved the card upward.

Then there was a snap, and the door popped open. Just like that.

Much to her absolute delight. Too much delight, really. It made her want to blurt out god that was sexy . And she only caught herself by keeping up the disapproving charade.

"Wow, that is some wild beginner's luck."

"I know, right? So weird and fortunate of me."

"Sure hope you're being as weird and fortunate to the ex-mayor."

"Oh you mean the guy who embezzled six million dollars and escaped prison? I mean, I did hear that his seventy-inch flat-screen went missing, and is now next to the mattress on the floor of my, quote unquote, bedroom . But I'm sure that's just a coincidence."

"Definitely a coincidence," she said solemnly. "Fingers crossed another one happens soon so you can have a bed. Because otherwise, I'm gonna have to do something about that. In fact, ever since I saw that death trap you live in, I've been thinking I might have to do a lot of somethings about that. I mean, do you even have electricity to run the TV?"

"I do not. But sometimes ghosts show me The Great British Baking Show ."

"Yeah, I'm not sure you should be watching that."

"Me neither. Paul Hollywood is scary enough without his eyeballs melting."

She exclaimed with delight. "That's exactly how I feel about him."

"Of course it is. I could have told you that."

"Because we're practically the same person?"

"At this point it's undeniable."

"Unquestionable."

"Beautiful."

That doesn't fit the other two words we used , she wanted to tell him. But she couldn't, because he'd said it all low and breathless-sounding. And he was standing very close all of a sudden. He was almost leaning, one hand high on the doorframe into the room they should have been going into, the other sort of hovering in the air between them. Like it wanted to do something.

But didn't quite dare.

Go on, dare , she thought.

So naturally had to change the subject, instead.

"Anyway, we should probably—" she started to say. Then was grateful when he picked up the thread. He gave her about ten rights and turned to the room beyond, which was fortunately just as distracting as the rest of the place.

More so, really.

In the hall it was just pictures and gas lamps. In this room there were wall-to-wall and ceiling-to-floor shelves, absolutely filled with a complete assortment of the weird and the wonderful. There were jars stuffed with eyes that still seemed alive, sat alongside perpetually frothing cauldrons. Stuffed animals of species she had no hope of recognizing, with eyes that seemed to watch you no matter where you stood.

She spotted vials that were only empty from one angle, plants bursting out of their pots to attack light fixtures, a row of tins with labels that bore phrases like void tea . Spice racks filled with substances other than spices; husks and veils of cobwebs and ropes of hair on hooks.

And all of it so fascinating and idea-charging that she could have spent a week examining everything. But just as she was about to ask Seth if she might possibly do so, she turned from the jar she was peering into, and saw his face.

His frozen, stricken face.

Then before she could form a single question, he took hold of her. He put his hands on both her arms, and started moving her in the direction of god only knew what. The nearest wall so he can fuck me against it , she thought, automatically, ridiculously.

Though of course it didn't feel ridiculous.

It felt like the heat between them had been building again all this time, and now it was at some kind of delirious crescendo. She almost blurted out, oh yes please, thank god , and only managed not to because she grasped what he was urging her toward. Not the wall. Or the desk he had to maneuver her around.

No—it was the big wardrobe behind the desk.

The one that did not seem very big at all once he'd stuffed her inside, and followed her in.

In fact, the whole scenario sort of felt like a reverse Narnia. The enormous, exciting, fantastical world was out there. Whereas this was just a cupboard. A boring empty cupboard with about as much space inside as your average coffin. In fact, it was so small he had to sort of lift and position her over one of his bent legs, just to be able to close the door.

Though why he would choose to do such a nightmarish thing was still largely unclear. All she knew at that moment was that his thigh was jammed between hers, and his hand was still on her waist, and that the only light around them was a thin sliver from the room beyond, illuminating only the most utterly terrible parts of him.

Like the gleam of one wolfish eye, and the slash of his meaty jaw, and the curve of his collarbone, and the slant of thick muscle just below, and and and—

"Seth, I have to get out of here right now," she blurted out.

But instead of listening, he just seemed to go rigid.

Then for some ungodly reason, he put a hand over her mouth.

Though the reason why he did it didn't really matter. Even when she heard voices from down the hall, loud and brash—and obviously belonging to the Jerk Squad—she couldn't really care. Every bit of her focus was on only one thing, now:

That his hand was so big it spanned the whole lower half of her face.

All she could feel were his thick fingers, pressing into her lips, her cheeks, her chin. She could barely breathe because of it. And even when he let up enough for her to, things didn't get any better. Because now she could feel where his other hand was.

It had her by the nape of her neck.

Fingers under her hair, in her hair, almost tangled in it.

As if he was about to do something more than encourage her silence, it seemed like.

And he knew it. She could see it in his eyes, the moment he glanced away from the sliver of light, and back to her. There it was—that deep understanding of how much he was touching her. And how little he could stand it.

It was the reason he jerked away, despite the risk of noise.

Then he actually wiped his hands on his shirt. Like he could get the feel of her off him by doing so. Even though that was ridiculous, this was all ridiculous, why had he done this? They had the means to fuck those assholes up, he knew they did—and if he had somehow forgotten, well, she was going to tell him so. She raised her fists. Mimed fighting them. Tapped the spray bottle she always kept at her hip now.

But he shook his head sharply. Looked frustrated.

More , he mouthed. And though it took her a second, she got what he meant.

It wasn't just the original three Jerks. They had others with them. At least five others, if the hand Seth held up was any indication. And now she could make out their raised voices more clearly, and they weren't saying anything good.

"Look, Hannigan isn't gonna help us. He's too busy with his crusade against that fucking librarian. So this is our best option. And it'll work too, I know it will. Once we have it, we can get that fat witch," she heard Jason say, and immediately had so many questions she almost blurted them out. It took a lot of restraint to limit her reaction to whipping a look at Seth, and mouthing what do they want? and what will the thing they want do? and fuck fuck fuck .

Though of course he couldn't answer her. The Jerks were very close now.

So close, in fact, she had to wonder why they couldn't smell Seth. All she could imagine was that the blocker masking her was also masking him, or that the magic lube was maybe stepping in, because god he was a riot of different scents, to her. She could make out strawberry bubblegum, and the airy sweetness of whatever soap or shampoo or deodorant he used, and then underneath it—something heated. Something familiar.

Perspiration, she thought it was—because his skin was lightly sheened with it.

She could see it gleaming in the darkness.

But part of her knew that was wrong. It was a heavier, sultrier scent. Like a stronger, more obvious version of what she'd smelled in her closet that time. Like the kind of thing that filled a room, after you'd spent five hours fucking the living daylights out of someone.

Even if she didn't want to admit that this was the case.

She tried to shrug it off. To focus on the problem at hand.

But it was very difficult to when he felt so boiling hot against her. When that heat seemed to be sliding into her and drowning out all other thoughts. When the curve of his throat was right there, and it was glossy with sweat, and if she just leaned forward and stuck out her tongue—

" Cassie ," he hissed.

Too loudly, she knew.

The sound froze them both in place, eyes locked. His searching hers with a kind of agonized confusion, hers no doubt hazy with whatever fucking delirium she seemed to be descending into. And then they just had to wait in that position. To see if anyone had heard, to see if anything would happen.

Even though waiting was impossible.

All she wanted to do was move. She wanted to squirm against his thigh.

Though honestly, she didn't realize she was actually doing it, until his eyes suddenly widened. He seemed to stiffen, and his leg tried to shift downward to get away from her, and when neither of those things worked he shot a hand out and grabbed her hip. He forced her to keep still.

Despite how much worse that definitely was. A low moan wrenched itself out of her, the second he did it. And so of course the first thing he said when they heard the Jerks' voices start to fade wasn't wow, that was close or hey, so I guess we should worry more about being killed by those fuckers or even let's go figure out what they were looking for .

No. They were: "Oh my fucking god, are you turned on right now?"

Which was fair, given what she was doing. But she had to at least try denying it.

"No, of course not," she snorted. Very unconvincingly.

"Cassie, you just tried to fuck my leg."

"Oh come on. I wasn't trying to fuck it."

"You're still doing it now. I can feel you squirming."

He was right. No matter how much she tried to keep herself still, she found it almost impossible to. That thick muscle of his had spread her thighs too effectively; it had given her too solid and warm a thing to make contact with. It seemed almost unnatural not to ease the ache between her legs by using it.

Even if using it was really bad. And not something she could accept.

"Maybe I'm just uncomfortable with your big thigh right there."

"And did that big uncomfortable thigh also make you this fucking wet?"

She tried to snort dismissively to that question too. But this one was harder.

Because god, it shocked her that he could tell. That he knew.

And grasping that he did made her denials clumsy.

"You can't possibly know something like that," she said.

Which of course only confirmed he was right.

Not that he needed confirmation.

"Of course I can. Cassie, I can hear it every time you move."

"Well, maybe you're just not listening right. Maybe it's something else."

"There isn't anything else that sounds like something slick sliding over a swollen, flushed little pussy. And even if there were, it wouldn't matter. Because I can feel it, too, oh god I can feel how wet you are. Fuck, how are you this wet?"

He said "pussy," he said "flushed, swollen little pussy , " her brain screamed.

Though she didn't know why that was the thing it was focusing on. Why the words made her want to moan and rut against him all over again, as if there were nothing shameful about it. Because after all, there were far more important and potentially lust-killing matters to deal with.

Like the fact that she was. Oh god, she was so preposterously wet she'd somehow made a mess of her panties, and her jeans, and then made a mess of his jeans. The whole space between them was a mess, in a way that seemed completely impossible.

Or at the very least utterly embarrassing.

Yet somehow, embarrassment wasn't what she felt.

It was another surge of arousal. And one that took a lot to bite back. She had to count to ten before she could talk. "It must be just the friction," she said. But of course he wasn't having it.

"We barely moved, Cassie."

"Okay, so maybe the situation did it."

"We were just trapped in a wardrobe by murderous werewolves, who are apparently on the hunt for something that makes them immune to Werewolf Killer, or makes you vulnerable to their attacks, or dissolves your protection spells. And that is very easily the least sexy situation I can think of," he said—which should really have shoved her attention firmly back to the danger they were in. But the only thing she could think of were denials. And almost none of them felt like denials anymore.

They felt like explanations. Reasons. Excuses .

"Okay. Okay, but you're very hot and close."

"We've been hot and close before."

"Yeah and—you—we—the thing is—" she tried.

But she knew what she had given away before he even replied.

"Oh my god, this isn't the only time that has happened," he said, and he just sounded so wasted by the idea. Like it had detonated a bomb between his ears.

Even though he had to understand.

Wasn't it just a bit understandable?

"It isn't the only time—but honestly, I'm so sorry about it. And I really didn't mean to feel like this, over it all. I think it's just that I'm not used to really graphically sexual stuff happening. I mean, god, I get horny over a fade-to-black scene in a book," she protested. Then tried to see what his expression was in response, through the darkness.

Did it reveal belief in what she was saying? Or something else?

But she couldn't make out a thing. And now the silence was spinning out.

It wasn't even a comfort when she heard the front door open and close and knew the Jerks had left the building. She was too busy waiting for his answer. In fact, by the time she got it, she was holding her breath. I just can't accept your sorrys and your excuses , she imagined.

Instead, he answered quietly.

"So you swear that's all it is."

"Of course."

"There's nothing else that did it."

"Look, if you're trying to get me to say I'm superhot for your sexy body—" she started to say, but his frustrated sound cut her off.

"Cassie, I would never think that. I would never believe that. I know you never will be. However, what I do not know is exactly how unhinged my werewolf pheromones appear to be making you. Because quite clearly, that is what is happening to you, to an almost nightmarish degree."

She fell silent. She had to, because all her mortification died away, like it had never existed. It just couldn't survive after he said I know you never will be . And it burned up entirely based on his other words. The ones that knocked the breath out of her. The ones she couldn't believe.

But struggled to refute somehow, anyway.

"But I'm not a werewolf. It shouldn't work that way," she tried to protest.

Though god, when she did. The sheer sense of wrongness that went through her.

She knew, almost immediately, that he was correct. She knew it so well that she wondered how she had missed it before. Of course it was something beyond the physical. Of course it was. What else could it have been, when she was getting so wet that even denim couldn't hold up to it? It was blatantly obvious.

And he seemed to think so, too.

"Honestly, I didn't think it did. But I should have known. Sometimes I could hear your heart hammering so hard, and you looked so flushed, and you smelled so rea—" he started to say.

But it was all right, he didn't have to finish. She knew the last word he had skipped was "ready." She knew, because it made her shiver. It made her want to say, because I am . And then she was glad he started talking about something else, before she could.

"Plus there was all the shit I kept getting the urge to do. All the stuff that I should have guessed was just me trying to make myself a better mate to you. As if some part of me knew that you being my mate was possible." He let out a frustrated sigh. Like he was talking about something simple and practical with an easy fix, and not something that had caused him to use the word "mate." But he didn't even stop there. "You obviously prefer the person I was, the person I still am inside, so the wolf kept pushing me to show you that more overtly. Like, you know. A fancy bird showing off the right feathers."

And oh god the doors that were blown off in her head, on hearing that.

She could immediately see exactly what he meant.

She could feel the way his actions had affected her. She could even name them.

"So the shirts and the hair and the breakfast," she said, too breathlessly. Like she was solving a puzzle—and apparently she had it exactly right. He was already nodding.

"More than that, honestly. I would have probably done those things anyway, but there was other stuff. Weirder stuff, that I kind of pushed down. Like wearing my glasses even though I don't need them anymore. Or wanting to bring you little gifts that I would never usually get you, like bottles of vitamins and weird crap you can make a nest out of. God, I should have guessed when it was a fucking nest," he groaned.

And yeah, he had a point.

But really, had she been any better?

She'd never been this horny in her life, and she hadn't guessed the reason for it. She'd just thought it was due to old feelings and weird happenings and him being all filthy and thirsty for her. But clearly it wasn't. Thank god it wasn't, it wasn't. She wasn't taking advantage of things he didn't really feel, or giving in to her own secret desires.

It was just weird werewolf mating urges.

And he was feeling the same. That was why he was trying to make her want him.

And none of it was their fault, no way, not in the least. "Look, even if you were doing those things because of werewolf hormone bullshit, you couldn't have understood that it would actually infect me. And even if it has, well. I mean it's not like this is going to kill us," she insisted.

Then she tried to laugh, she really did.

But she felt him tense up, and somehow knew that he was wincing and, oh Jesus Christ, was that the witch tingle happening? "Oh my god you're saying it might actually kill us. You're actually saying that. You're telling me that if we don't get out of this extreme deranged horniness for each other, we will kick the bucket. Like some sort of weird Star Trek ian-fuck-or-die-fated-mates-type situation," she said, and got absolutely zero nopes in response. Not one single no.

He just fucking welp-ed .

"That's about the size of it, yeah," he said, as her mind tried to race right off the edge of some terrible cliff.

"Okay. Okay cool. Cool cool cool. That's fine."

"That doesn't sound like you think it's fine."

"Even if it isn't, maybe I can fix it."

"You don't seem too sure about that."

"Because my brain is currently being addled by werewolf-sex nonsense, Seth. As soon as we're out of this wardrobe it will go away—or I can help it go away somehow—and I will feel much more certain about things. So make sure the guys are really gone, and open this thing up."

She nudged him toward the door—even though touching him at all felt like being briefly electrocuted. But it was worth it, because he immediately moved to do what she had suggested. He listened, and then he pressed his hand against the door. Firmly, in a way that should have opened it.

But for some reason, he had to do it again.

And again, harder.

Really hard. Scarily hard.

"Seth, please tell me this thing is not fucking jammed shut."

"I want to, but I can't. Because it seriously is."

"But you have werewolf strength. Just use that."

"I am trying. Doesn't it look like I'm trying?"

"It looks like you're sweating and straining and all the muscles in your arms are really standing out, oh they are really visible and they are so thick and good, and oh my god this is unbearable, this is the most mortifying thing ever, oh I have no idea how you stand it," she said, before she even knew any of that was in her to say.

The words simply burst out of her, as if them naming what was happening had dropped the guardrails she'd put up. She no longer had to worry that he might disapprove of her behavior, or that she was taking advantage of his hormonal state, or that she was actually into him. Her only motivator was supernatural werewolf magic.

So why bother pretending? Hell, she wasn't even sure if she could pretend at this point.

And nor could he, it seemed. She could feel him shaking. She heard him groan when she said "thick" and "good." Then just to round things off, he said, "Well, currently I manage by masturbating seventeen times in a row." So it really seemed that now was the terrible-but-unfathomably-hot-honesty portion of the proceedings.

"Wait, you said you did it ten . You said ten was enough to make you okay."

"Yeah, and I rounded down so you wouldn't be scared."

"And you think now I will be less so ? Seth, I need to get off so badly I can feel it in my fucking teeth. I think these hormones might be boiling my brain. And right at this moment I'm in a situation where I can't even do it once. Never mind dozens of times," she said—both because all of it was true, but also because it was something to do instead of murdering him.

But unfortunately for them both, what he said next made her want to murder him even more. "Just rub yourself against me like you were doing before," he said. As if that were a real and normal possibility.

"I am not going to consciously use your innocent thigh to get myself off."

"My thigh isn't innocent. In fact, all it currently wants to do is jam itself against your pussy, and the only thing that is stopping that from happening is me using every bit of strength I have left to hold it in place."

She looked down. She couldn't help it.

But god, she regretted doing so. Now she could make out his thigh muscle, trembling with effort, through the denim of his jeans. She could see his hands on himself. Both hands, on his leg, actually forcing it to stay down. Then after a long, agonizing second of this, he smacked one of said hands against the wall of the wardrobe, above her head. Like he needed to steady himself. Or force some other part of himself to stay away from her.

He wants to grind himself against me, she thought blankly.

Then got an urge to do just that for him, strong enough that she almost couldn't fight it. The idea simply gripped her and wouldn't let go. And worse—it seemed for a second that there was no argument against it. He wanted to, and she wanted to, so why not, her body wanted to know.

And it was only remembering who they were—and what that would look like in practice—that forced her to talk sense. "That still doesn't suggest I should. Or can. I mean, you'll see me," she said. But all he did was sigh in response.

"If being seen is what you're worried about, then stop. My eyes are already closed. They've been closed for the last ten minutes. In fact, I'm not sure I am ever going to be able to open them again."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because looking at you before was bad. But looking at you while you are this fucking horny is actual hell. It almost makes me wish I didn't have werewolf night vision, just so I don't have to see your hazy-with-lust gaze, and your flushed cheeks, and the tongue you keep using to lick your pouty, parted lips."

"Oh god, I can't possibly look that bad," she groaned.

But he offered her no consolation. He just made a despairing sound. "You look worse. But I don't want to describe the other things."

"Maybe you should. I might be able to stop doing whatever they are."

"Cassie, you can't stop your nipples straining through a fucking sweater."

"I can hold the fabric out. Like this."

She demonstrated with her hands.

So of course he looked. Why wouldn't he? She was supposed to be showing him something less revealing. Something safer, for him to look at. She really didn't mean to give him an unobstructed view, directly down her top.

"Ohhhh my god. Oh my god, you're not wearing a bra. You don't even have a bra on. How do you not have a bra on? Why do you not have a bra on?" he asked, as he whipped his face away, and screwed his eyes tight shut again.

While she scrambled to cover up. And give him some kind of answer.

"I don't know. Wearing one feels really uncomfortable now."

"Fuck. Fuck, do not tell me why. In fact, say nothing else."

"It's not that bad. Everything just feels kind of super sensitive."

There , she thought. That will clear everything up in a nice, innocent way .

But she should have known it wouldn't even before he let out an agonized groan.

"So you can't stand tight material brushing over those hard little nipples. You just want something gentle on them, something soft, maybe something slick and teasing that makes you—oh fuck , I told you not to tell me," he said, reasonably enough at first. But as his sentences ran on, he sounded more and more panicked and breathless until finally here they were, in hell.

In a terrible, terrible hell that she somehow didn't even want to escape from.

"Yeah, I really shouldn't have. Now all I can think about is what slick and teasing thing you mean. Like, are you talking about your mouth? Are you talking about licking and sucking? Is that what you are suggesting by that?" she asked, and now she sounded just as breathless and eager as he did.

Much to his frustration. "Of course I am. There's nothing else it could be."

"I can think of some other things."

"No you can't."

"Sure I can. You could suck your fingers and use those. Or have me suck them, and do it that way. Or you could make me do it to myself, you know, while you watched. Or possibly get your cock out, and then you know. Just rub the slick tip all over my tits, all over my hard—"

She wasn't surprised when he interrupted her.

But it was a surprise how he went about it. Oh yeah, that was a shock all right. Because he didn't do it with words. He did it with his hand on her hip, firm enough that it kicked a sound of shock out of her. Then another one, when that hand didn't just stay where it was.

It seemed to move, in this really insistent, particular sort of way. It urged her back and then forward, back and then forward, until finally it was clear. He was trying to get her to work herself against him, quite obviously.

And of course she knew why.

He wanted her to get off, before she said anything worse. He needed there to be an end to this—to her talking dirty and looking the way she did and being so close to him. It was driving him mad, she could see it was, even through the darkness. She could make out the cords in his neck standing out, where the light hit them. And a hint of his clenched teeth.

And that wasn't just his nails digging into her.

It was claws. She could tell it was claws.

She could hear threads of denim popping as they pierced the fabric of her jeans.

And, yeah, that should have been scary. It should have thrown cold water over everything. But somehow it just seemed to make everything hotter. Now all she could think about was how desperate he had to be. How much effort it must have been taking to hold himself in check.

Yet he didn't even pull her closer.

He didn't force her against his groin. Or grope her ass or her thigh.

Even though she could tell he wanted to do both. She could tell he wanted to do more. She could feel the tension in his arms and his grip, whenever he came close to anything like it. He slid one hand over her waist just to make things more comfortable, and somehow slipped a little way up her top. He grazed bare skin over her side.

And it made him gasp and go all still.

And she knew what he was thinking about.

Her bare breasts, only a few inches away. How easy it would be to push upward, underneath her sweater, and cup and squeeze and fondle. Because of course she wouldn't say no. She couldn't imagine, in the state she was in, that she would ever be able to say no to anything. He could have probably yanked her jeans down and had her up against the wall of the wardrobe, no problem at all.

And he was quite clearly struggling with the knowledge that this was the case.

So she did it for him. She pushed herself against him, until his hand simply slid up. And she didn't regret it, once his palm made contact with the smooth curve of her breast. She couldn't—the contact was just too glorious, too intense. It seemed to sizzle over her skin. It set up an echo of pleasure between her legs.

A thick, heavy echo, that forced a sob from her lips.

But that was all right, because the second he felt that softness, the instant he heard and felt her reaction, he reacted in almost the same way. He stiffened, and let out a hoarse sound. Followed by words, all in a tumble. "Oh god, Cassie, you're so fucking hot, you feel so fucking good, oh man, I can't resist when you're this gorgeous and eager."

Then after he had, something more seemed to break.

And he let his hand close over the swell of her breast. He let himself grope her, he let himself fondle her. He let his palm slide so sweetly over her aching nipple. Just for a second, one delicious, soft second—but that second was enough.

It turned that wave of heat between her legs into an avalanche.

An intense and impossible avalanche, of a sort she recognized completely. She felt it pulse through her, in this thick, heavy way. Felt her clit swell, felt her pussy ache and clench around nothing, felt how wet it made her. And she knew, she knew. She knew she was coming. He had made her come, just by passing his palm over one stiff little nipple.

And not even in some small, weak way.

She shuddered over it. Said his name over it.

Made noises that should have made her ashamed.

But they didn't, because he did the same. He let out a guttural, near-rattling moan of pleasure, from between his clenched teeth. Almost a grunt of pain, it sounded like—though she knew it wasn't. He was just coming and coming and coming, hard enough that it hurt.

And she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was her that had made him.