Chapter Two Draco
Chapter Two Draco
Getting head from Jean-Emilien is one of my favorite things in life.
I swear, the little demon brims with more trouble and mischief than Loki. But the hot suck of his mouth wrapped around my cock is a fucking experience that’s not to be missed.
I’m close—real close—to shooting my load down the little imp’s throat. Just the way he loves it. So I’m none too keen on him getting interrupted—from whatever asshole’s clumping down the stairs behind me—in mid-suck.
Anyone who tries prying his mouth off my dick right now is gonna get their face shoved through a wall.
When my head fills with the soft fresh scent of spring rain and honeysuckle, my spike of testosterone-fueled aggression melts in a hot rush of anticipation.
I’ve never stood as close to sweet, shy, sexy Mallory McSnicker—the wide-eyed, sharp as scissors, wicked smart First Girl on the Dean’s List—as I’m standing right now. This unattainable girl I’ve been lusting after from a distance, like some horny Icelandic stallion caught downwind from a mare in heat, from the moment I caught the first whiff of all that sweet First Girl innocence at freshman orientation.
Mallory .
She may be innocent.
But she definitely likes to watch.
Last year, she liked to watch Ronin Pendragon, the way everyone of any gender around here watches that guy, and I was so jealous I woulda ripped his fucking dick off if he ever looked back. This year, she likes to watch Jean-Emilien, which I obviously can’t blame her for. Lately, it seems like maybe she even likes to watch me.
But she’s skittish as a reindeer in hunting season.
At the first hint of any attention I ever try to show her, she always bolts.
Like she’s bolting right now.
After I opened my horny fucking mouth and invited her to join us. Like, the words literally just came outta me on their own.
Then, of course, Jae makes it worse with that smart mouth and that sexy smirk that sends heat rushing into Mallory’s pretty face. She’s a true redhead, with flaming copper hair, skin like milk, and a smattering of nutmeg freckles running across the bridge of her pert nose. When her gray eyes fly wide and her lush mouth pops open, I know she’s gonna bolt.
Again.
Except she misses her footing on the stairs.
Her slim graceful legs, those legs of hers that go on for miles, get all tangled up in the glittery disco platform shoes she’s rocking.
Now, with a yelp and a scramble that comes up short, she’s fucking falling.
Jean-Emilien hisses in alarm, abandons my cock completely, and leaps after her tumbling form in a feral scramble. But even his wolf won’t be fast enough to catch her.
“Helvitis,” I mutter, and flex my telekinesis like a muscle.
I’m the strongest warlock in my clan, so no one ever fucks with me, for reasons . Reasons that go way beyond my unsavory family business and my notorious last name. Now my Mogadon witchcraft lashes out like a bullwhip. I wrap my arcane power around Mallory’s supple waist and arrest her plummet in mid-tumble.
A surprised little squeak slips outta her.
But she’s smart enough not to struggle. She goes totally still in my grip, like she’s not even breathing, suspended five meters over the stairs by the invisible fist of my power.
I’m human (all rumors to the contrary) and I’m male.
So I seize my moment to appreciate the view.
Mallory’s long and elegant as a racehorse, all slim thoroughbred lines and soft creamy skin under the silvery sparkle of her party dress. Her mane of fiery curls floats gently around her outstretched limbs in the psychic charge of my witchcraft. Normally, she’s all buttoned up in the prim blouses and blazers of her Academy uni. But that sexy dress she’s wearing tonight bares her long legs and the delicate jut of her shoulders and the smooth plane of her upper back and…
…an exquisite gray-and-black tattoo. That impressive piece of custom ink spreads across her shoulders and spirals down her spine to vanish under her tease of a dress.
Angel wings.
So detailed and vivid. Those shimmery feathers, the exact shade of molten lead, look ready to sprout from her skin and take flight.
Fuck.
Me.
Little Miss Mallory’s been hiding all that ink under her modest schoolgirl uni. Definitely makes me wonder what other secrets she might be hiding.
That concept triggers all my savage hunting instincts.
Suddenly the primitive arctic hunter in me is burning to track her. Trap her. Claim her. Uncover her wings and her secrets and her needs—all those hidden, sweaty, late-night needs she’s afraid are way too filthy ever to share. Expose every centimeter of her delectable body. One fascinating mystery at a time.
“Hey, amou .” Jean-Emilien’s soft voice, all husky with sex, drags me out of my trance. “Think you can let the girl down now, oui?”
Down. Right. Fuck.
She’s still suspended in my predatory grip.
With a casual twist, I grunt and ease my prey upright so she’s vertical, then I lower her feet to the stairs. Once she’s good and steady, I make myself unflex my telekinetic muscle and release her with a growl of protest.
Cuz releasing her is the last thing I wanna do.
Ever.
“Uh, wow, thanks. That was… impressive.” The girl sounds breathless, like you’d expect after she just barely avoided breaking every bone in her perfect body on those wicked stairs.
She smooths her sparkly dress and shakes back her flaming hair with a cute little grimace. Her enormous eyes veer straight to my boner—because of course I’m standing here on the public stairs like a pervert with my dick hanging out. Her breath hitches in on a shocked hiccup. Her teeth sink hard into the plump curve of her lower lip.
I watch with complete fucking fixation as her cheeks pinken right up. A sudden flood of her sweet rain-and-honeysuckle fragrance perfumes the air.
I had my suspicions before, but I was never sure.
Now I am.
I’d bet my Harley that girl’s a complete innocent. Innocent as the pagan goddess Gefjun from my native land.
But that sudden whiff of scent tells me Little Miss Innocent is also… curious.
About me .
A potent hit of juniper and bergamot smacks my senses like a freight train. That’s my mating scent, laced with Jean-Emilien’s feral fragrance and enough of my own Mogadon pheromones to make all three of us horny.
As if we weren’t already all sexed up as fuck.
“Do not run,” I tell her gruffly, before the chick bolts again. “You’ll break your neck in those fucking shoes.”
“Oh, um, right.” She seems to be having trouble taking her eyes off my dick. I’m already right on the edge from Jean-Emilien sucking me off like a goddamn porn star with his filthy hot mouth.
Now, under Mallory’s fascinated gaze, Mr. Happy swells proudly.
Great.
I clear my throat and start tucking my junk away before I embarrass myself. Very clearly, Jean-Emilien will need to finish me off later. I don’t wear briefs under my leather, and this is one of the times that sucks. Grimly I wrestle my zipper shut over my raging boner and almost catch my pubes in the thing.
With my dick now under wraps (and bitterly protesting the entire decision), Mallory’s gaze lifts shyly to my face, lips parted and eyes wide.
For a breath, I hold her complete attention. Her gray eyes shimmer and flash an eerie silver in the twilight.
An unexpected tingle raises goosebumps down my arms. For a heartbeat, my hunting instinct whispers, Not human.
Shit. I’m losing my goddamn mind over this girl. Magically and socially, she’s a nobody. She’s nothing. A total nonentity. Her lackluster witching world pedigree couldn’t be any more pedestrian.
But whatever she is or isn’t, I want her.
Then her stare swerves to Jae.
Poised two stairs below me with his lithe frame caught in a crouch, beaded braids streaming around his lean hungry face and hot amber eyes, my guy stares back at her with equal fascination.
In the awkward silence, the soundtrack skips in the basement. The tune morphs from some Eurotrash shit to the perky beat of Katy Perry’s Birthday.
“Ah, sounds like they’re calling you, oui? You got your fais do do downstairs. ” Jean-Emilien’s voice thickens. “Unless, maybe, you want to stay? ”
A snarl of anticipation rumbles from my chest. That primal sound—or more likely the offer we’ve now both given her—seems to shatter whatever trippy spell she’s under.
“Okay,” she says, and my heart stops beating.
Then she rushes ahead. “I mean, thanks for the offer, but you don’t have to be so polite. I, uh, wouldn’t horn in on your thing, three’s a crowd and all that. So, um, bye.”
I’m still trying to sift through that geyser of words so I can decide which of her several mistaken assumptions to tackle first when she bolts downstairs in a long-legged scramble and a flash of silver sparkles.
Again.
“Fokk,” I grumble as she vanishes around the bend. “That went well.”
Jae flexes his fingers to retract his wicked claws and stares after her with burning eyes. “So we just gonna let her go then, amou?”
“What do you think? Clearly, she couldn’t be less interested. She’s been avoiding us all semester. And she literally just ran away from us twice.” Even to myself, I sound disgruntled and surly as fuck.
Jean-Emilien has Valyrian recessives, which makes him part telepath, and his bloodthirsty shifter instincts are totally feral. Those are instincts I’ve learned to respect. And trust.
So when my guy talks, I listen.
“Ah, that just means she wants us to chase, oui?” His fangs descend and his wolf eyes fire with golden heat. “You like to chase, Draco. The chase, she’s what you live for. And me, I was born and bred to hunt.”