FOUR Gryff
FOUR
Gryff
I slam the window shut, making the glass rattle in the pane. Turning away, I try to forget the generous swell of flesh cupped in her small hands, the way my fingers itched to replace hers, to squeeze and weigh and plump them in my hands, to savor the way she would moan under my touch.
Fuck.
I can’t be thinking about my best friend’s daughter that way. A girl who asked me for protection earlier today—which I refused her.
Some friend I am.
I had no choice, though. There’s no way I could keep her safe from the biggest threat of all—me. I reacted so strongly after scenting her from fifteen feet away I nearly grabbed that lizard shifter by the throat and tore his tongue out of his mouth, just for tasting the air she was breathing.
I huff out a breath, trying to expel the sweet, creamy scent of her from my nostrils, but it’s no use. It’s her scent which drew me to the window. That and the soft, sweet sound of her moans across the distance between the two properties.
That same rich, buttery smell I caught on her the moment the delivery driver touched her was amplified tenfold, carried on the slight night breeze right to me only to land like a sucker punch to the gut. Arousal. Completion.
I draw in another deep breath before I catch myself, because there’s something more potent beneath the surface. Something that feels like it was made just for me.
If I thought it was intoxicating before, this time it was a hundred times sweeter. My cock is impossibly hard in my trousers in response. With an angry snarl I turn and pace back the other way across my small living room, refusing to unzip my fly and wrap my hand around the hard length.
There’s no way I’m beating off to the stolen image of my neighbor’s daughter standing naked in the window with the most adorable smile on her face, like she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
Fuck!
Why is everything I associate with her some kind of treat, a food I crave like I crave her flavor on my tongue?
I should have turned away the moment I realized she was standing there naked.
I should not have lingered so long after she locked eyes with me and that pretty blush stole over her cheeks.
It was like the longer I stared, the more captivated she became.
The longer I lingered there the faster the swell of her chest rose and fell under her small hands and her pink lips parted in what? In wonder? Astonishment?
What is wrong with me? This is fuel on the flame. I’ll get no sleep tonight. Not that I sleep much anyway, what with the nightmares that have plagued me for the last ten years.
I fling myself onto the bed in my sparsely furnished room, palming down the bulge that stretches out the crotch of my jeans. It pushes insistently against the seam, demanding my attention.
Not like this. Not over her.
Not even when she smells so fucking ripe she could put a whole orchard to shame. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was a new omega primed to go into her first heat.
But that’s impossible. Isn't it?
I don't know much about succubus—succubi? Shifters go into heat. But many other types of monsters don't. I guess maybe a succubus does too. Sure smells like it.
I wonder if she knows. I have no idea how much information Bill and Sonia had when they adopted her. I guess it must have been hard for them all figuring things out.
Though I expect to lie awake all night, at some point in the early hours of the morning I must drift to sleep.
One moment the guys on the gardening podcast I use to bore me to sleep are talking about the right time to prune a hedge, the next, the golden morning light is streaming through my window as they laugh about the time they accidentally composted a whole rotisserie chicken, plastic wrapping and all.
I blink, rolling to sit and rub at my face. My body feels heavy. Languid. Almost as if I’ve had a good night’s sleep.
When I check the time, I think at first I’ve made a mistake or forgotten about daylight savings switching over or something. There’s no way it’s eight in the morning. That would mean I got a solid six hours.
Sure enough, though, I check my laptop and the clock above the kitchen counter, and they all match. But that’s unheard of. I haven’t had that many hours together since—well I’d rather not think about that.
It’s a fucking miracle, that’s what it is.
Usually I wake screaming after a few fitful hours filled with horrific nightmares of my friends’ faces right before they were blown to pieces or the states of the bodies afterward and the hours it took me to collect as many of them as I could find.
On bad nights, I picture the way they looked after they were cobbled back together again.
With a shudder, I rouse myself and put the coffee on. I should be celebrating, not dwelling on the images and feeling guilty for not dreaming of them for the first night in forever.
But if I don’t dream of them, are they finally gone? Forgotten? Left behind? Left to whatever fate befell them after they were raised again?
Turning to the sink, I run the cold water and splash two handfuls over my face, chasing away the thoughts which creep up my spine for the time being.
Coffee made, I sit at the table wondering what to do with my day after a whole six hours of sleep. I ignore the message from my shrink. It's never good news when Dr. Voss calls. I don't want to deal with that today.
I suppose I should get out and do the yard work I’ve been avoiding. Even though that means a trip to the hardware store. If I can’t face it after such a good night, I’ll never be able to.
Decided, I shower—even shave—and pull on a ripped pair of jeans and a sleeveless shirt.
The engine of my old truck stubbornly refuses to wake the first few turns of the key in the ignition.
After a third and longer turn, it chokes to life, black smoke filling my rearview mirror.
I should sell the damn thing, but that would involve talking to people.
The hardware store is quiet. Tinny music plays through the speakers overhead. The goblin at the desk stares at me as I walk past, and I catch him pick up the receiver and whisper something down the line.
I’m lucky they didn’t ban me from the store last time I came in here. I started a fight with the cyclops who tried to take the last set of hedge trimmers right out of my fucking cart.
I stalk on toward the aisle where they stock replacement mower blades, ignoring the weedy mothman.
I’m halfway down the aisle when an all too familiar scent almost bowls me over. Buttered cotton candy. That’s what it’s like. As if someone canned something so addictively sweet it should be classed as a weapon.
I come to a complete halt, nostrils flaring, wolf pressing at the seams of my human form and trying to get free.
Even though this is the aisle I need, even though I should get the blades and leave, I find my feet turning me and steering me in the opposite direction from aisle four, section two, right back the way I came, as if I’m in a dream.
As soon as I round the corner into aisle five, I spot her, blonde hair gathered into a messy bun on the top of her head, denim shorts too short for sanity hugging her rounded ass.
Despite knowing I shouldn’t, I lean against the metal shelving unit watching her as she reaches for something above her head.
A minotaur with long, white horns is passing close by. As she moves, he pauses and twists his head. His large nostrils flare and his tail flicks.
“Here, let me get that for you, sweetheart.” He steps close and I know the moment his actions shift from polite and helpful to unsavory. I smell it.
He reaches above her, but the movement presses his front against her back. They both stiffen.
I see red.
I push my shoulder off the shelving unit and stride forward, pushing between them.
“I got it from here, buddy,” I say, giving him a shove.
“Something you need me to reach, Honey?” I slide a protective hand across her waist and over her belly, yanking her toward me and away from the minotaur whose head drops as though he’s thinking about charging.
That might have been a mistake given that Honey’s delectable backside is now pressed far too close to where my over-excited cock thinks all his Christmases have come at once.
Honey softens, twisting in my arms to blink up at me with large, doe-like eyes for one single moment before I see the realization dawn in her expression.
“Oh, Gryff! It’s you!” She stares up at me with those baby blues, and I almost lose myself.
Almost cup her ass and draw her onto her toes so she can rub up against what she’s done to me without even trying.
Then I realize she’s searching my face for a reaction and shake myself.
She thinks I’m playing along with her fake-boyfriend scheme doesn’t she? That’s the only damn excuse I’ve got for having my hands all over my best friend’s daughter.
There’s no other choice now.
I shake myself and force a smile I hope looks natural onto my face. “Yeah, it’s me. This guy bothering you?” I jerk my head to indicate our bull-headed audience.
The minotaur shakes himself and steps back. “Sorry… I don’t know what came over me.”
Pretending to ignore him, I keep my eyes on Honey. “You know what, babygirl, I think it’s better if you choose the paint color. How about you come show me what you like?”
My voice comes out so low and gravelly I hardly recognize it.
“Sure thing.” A smile twists the corner of her mouth. My brain is too scrambled by her nearness to process what she’s laughing at, so I just play along. “Need anything else?”
“Just some paint rollers and a few sample pots for now. Oh! And a tarp.”
I push away the desire to flick my tongue out and sample the shape of that smile, grabbing her hand instead and dragging her to the other end of the aisle from Mr. Helpful Horns.
“Come on. Aisle one.” I’ve got no fucking idea where the paint is kept, I just know I need to get her away from the other male—immeidately.
Honey follows me, letting me hold her basket and stack the paint pots and rollers inside, asking me cheerfully which blue I like better for the living room as if we really are here on a planned trip together and she’s having the time of her life.
I’m aware of eyes on us, or rather on her. If any monster is watching me now, he’s busy thinking what a lucky bastard I am to be here with her rather than how I don’t belong out in public.
That’s unexpectedly nice.
Or it would be if I didn’t have the irrational instinct to rip the throat out of every male who looks at her for more than twenty nanoseconds.
It’s just because she’s my neighbor’s kid. I’m just doing the neighborly thing and looking out for her. I tell myself that a whole heck of a lot as we make our way through the store, collecting the things she needs and loading them in the basket.