Chapter 7 – Cam
Iadjusted the bill of the Yankee’s cap. The light from the screen was at its lowest setting, but still, the grey-blue glow blasted through the dark room. Sara wrote another five chapters today, bringing her total to fifteen.
So many words….
I could barely write a text message. Where did she pull those from?
Hell, where did this story come from? Granted, there were disjointed paragraphs, plus her notes in the margin telling herself to come back when she fixed this detail later in the story.
But it was there! A whole fucking book, unfolding before my eyes.
The first night, I only meant to skim it. I wanted to know what drove her to hide out in this cabin. I wound up hanging off every word, mad that the first section ended. Last night I came back, and after checking on my girl, I nestled myself in the armchair with a glass of scotch to read.
Tonight, I’d skipped the drink, simply needing to know what happened next.
Lost in a world of magic, shapeshifters, and monstrous creatures, I nearly missed the flush of the toilet. The plumbing gurgled on its way to the septic tank, jolting me out of a trial by fire where the female main character had been badly burned.
I listened.
When I was fairly certain the angel had gone back to bed, I scrolled down the page. Air caught in my lungs, and I held my breath. The heroine was going to burn alive if she didn’t use her magic. But showing the high council that she had magic would be an instant death sentence!
Dio sacro, my girl was brilliant.
I imagined a future, one where we were together. I would make sure she drank water during marathon writing sprints. I would also urge her to take breaks and eat. I would tuck her into bed.
I’ll make it happen.
She was mine to take care of, and at the end of the day, I would read what she wrote. Maybe even try some of these kinkier scenes. Too bad I didn’t have shadow magic to pin her against the wall with and devour her sweet pussy.
I was only a man.
But I could improvise.
I smirked and kept reading, seeing myself as the shadow prince and Sara as the heroine.
I moved the sticky note at the top of the screen.
In bold, uppercase letters, Sara had written GO FOR IT—LIFE IS TOO SHORT!
She was talking about the shift in genre.
I was happy that she was pursuing her passion, writing something new and exciting.
I could tell from the way the words flowed that this story was meant to be.
“Hey! Mother trucker!” a shout cracked through the night. “Get away from that laptop!”
A missile whistled through the air.
Blind from the screen light, I didn’t see it coming. A slipper smacked the side of my face.
I closed the laptop lid, tucked it in the computer bag, and rose. The angel was awake and fury sizzled from her body.
That vicious sound twisted something inside me.
My dick sprang to life at the tone of her voice.
Sara shook, standing under the roughhewn arch of the living room. “You have no right to be touching that!”
The protective note in her voice made me smile. She was every bit as fierce as her heroine.
I prowled forward.
It took a couple of heartbeats before Sara realized what was happening. She took a shaky step back. I continued to advance.
“What…what are you doing?” she stammered.
I grinned, enjoying the note of fear in her voice. Blood rushed south, and my balls tightened with need.
“I’ll hurt you!” she gasped.
The threat made my heart swell with pride. I wanted her bite. I ached for her to claw my skin raw. The idea sent a throb shooting down the length of my shaft.
Trapping her against the half wall in the front hall that formed the stairs, I gripped the spindled rails above her head.
Sara inhaled sharply.
“Well, hello again,” I rasped, forcing my voice to turn into the gravelly tone I’d been practicing so as not to rely on the voice changer. “There’s nowhere to run tonight.”
“You!” Sara breathed. “Where’s your devil mask?”
A rough laugh choked from my throat. “Don’t need it.”
Recognizing me as her date from the masquerade calmed her down. The fear left her body—but not the rage.
“You followed me out here? That’s creepy!”
I ran my hands down her arms, shifting to touch her waist. “Tell me to go.”
I would.
But I wouldn’t go far.
And if she was smart, which she was, she would know I’d be back.
Pushing up the camisole, I hooked my fingers on the elastic of her cotton shorts. My touch skimmed across the low expanse of her belly.
Her soft gasp was caught between our bodies. But Sara didn’t push me away.
Maybe it was unconsciously, but she widened her stance. It was only a fraction, but it was enough. It was all the permission I needed.
Her long, dark hair fell forward, hiding her face even if there had been light to see it by. I could make out the curve of her chest through the thin cotton of her camisole. Her nipples peaked and strained against the material.
A hunger unlike any I’d ever felt surged in my veins.
She didn’t move.
“You haunt me,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out.
She shivered.
I bent and pressed a kiss against the smooth skin of her shoulder. “Cold, angel?”
“No!” she snapped, but the words didn’t carry a spike of anger since they were so breathy.
I reached for my belt. “Good.”
The leather slipped through my jeans. The noise was innocent enough. Not as powerful as shadows, but it would serve.
Sara stiffened at the sound.
Time to see if she really did have main character energy.
I already knew she did.
The house sighed around us, the old pipes knocking once somewhere in the walls. Her shoulders rose with a breath and fell, and something in that small movement undid me completely.
When the leather brushed against her shoulder, she went rigid.
“Hey—” Her voice was thick with confusion. She started to step away but hit the wall. “What the hell?”
“No.” My voice came out low, a register she didn’t recognize. “Don’t run.”
She froze.
I felt the question in her muscles before she could form it. The instinct to pull away warred with something else. Curiosity, maybe? Or the same charged energy that had hummed between us at the ball.
I brought the belt around the banister spindle first, then her right wrist. A zing of electricity zapped at the contact.
She made a small sound as I looped the length and pulled it snug.
The sound made my dick jerk. He pulsed against the seam of my jeans, but tonight wasn’t about him.
It was about my little captive. This angel, who I’d caught in the dark.
I cinched the knot. It wasn’t tight enough to hurt.
Her skin was warm under my fingers. Almost feverish.
I groaned, wanting to touch more of her.
“What are you doing?” Her whisper had an edge now, hesitation cutting through the fog.
I didn’t answer.
This was as close to the scene she’d written today as I could create.
My hands found her left wrist and brought it to meet the right, binding them together around the spindle with a quick, practiced knot. The leather strained against the wood with a soft creak.
“‘I told you that if you survived the arena, there would be a reward.’” I repeated the words from the screen. “‘You did well, Death. I’ve never seen a troll split in half.’”
The authoress recognized her character’s words and choked on a breath. “You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly.” I drew the tip of my finger down her cheek. “‘Spread your legs, Death.’”
My girl vibrated with excitement. I wished there was more light to see the way her eyes were glittering right now. Those midnight orbs were capable of capturing stars and reflecting their light.
Sara tested the bonds once. A short, sharp tug that went nowhere.
“Please,” she said. The word had no direction—please stop, or please continue, I couldn’t tell which. Maybe she didn’t know either.
I stepped back to examine my work. The angel was mostly silhouette. I drank in the sight of the dark fall of her hair, the slope of her shoulders, the way her bound hands were lifted slightly above the banister as if in offering.
I knelt.
The hardwood was cold through the fabric of my jeans. Sara’s legs were spread in front of me, her feet bare, her toes curled against the wood grain. I could smell the faint soap scent of her recent shower. Roses. Warm and lush from the heat of her skin. I wet my lips, eager for a taste.
My hands found the waistband of her pajama pants.
I hooked my thumbs under the elastic and drew them down in one slow motion.
Sara made a sound. The sharp intake of breath ended in a soft moan.
Her hips lifted slightly, involuntarily, making the task easier.
The shorts slid over her thighs and pooled at her knees, and then she was exposed to me in the dark, nothing between us but the thin cotton of her underwear and the thicker darkness that hid my face from her view.
I could see her better now, my eyes having adjusted to the gloom.
The pale triangle of her underwear ended in darker shadow between her thighs.
There was a quiver in her muscles as she fought the instinct to close her legs.
She didn’t. She held herself open, trembling, and the courage of that nearly broke me.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
It took me a second to realize she wasn’t asking about my real identity. She hadn’t forgotten I was the masked escort to the harvest ball. Those were her character’s words.
So, I assumed the role and gave her the answer she craved. “Commander Bastain, General of the Ninth.”
Sara fucking gasped.
The sound cut through the space around us like the crack of a whip.
I smiled viciously, knowing the effect those words had on her.
My hand found her inner thigh and pushed gently, spreading her wider, and then I hooked her right leg over my shoulder.
The position bent her forward, her bound hands now bearing more weight against the banister.
She was vulnerable, spread out before me.
A prize to be taken, even though she hadn’t just defeated a troll in the arena.
Reality melded with fiction to create the perfect atmosphere.
My mouth found her through the cotton. I breathed hot against her, feeling the fabric dampen immediately under my breath.
Her hips jerked. A small, broken sound escaped her and her fingers scrabbled against the belt above her.
I pressed my tongue against the thin barrier.
I tasted the salt-sweetness of her even through the cotton.
She grew dangerously wet against the fabric.
“You’re mine,” I growled.
Sara choked. “No! No, I’m not!”
My smile pressed against her pussy. “You are when you’re this wet for me, angel.”
Death. Her character was called death. But that word had no place here, not between us.
I peeled back the underwear and pulled them aside to the sound of her ragged breathing. The scent was warm and sweet. Musky. Unmistakably female. My tongue found her bare flesh.
Fuck. She was decadent.
Sara cried out. The sound went through me like a current.
Tugging the underwear down her legs, I dove forward and ate her with the hunger of a man who had been starving.
This time, her leg lifted to rest on me of her own accord.
The fact that she willingly opened herself made me ravenous.
My tongue traced the length of that gorgeous pussy, from that tight entrance to her clit, and then circled there, slow and deliberate, while my hands held her for balance.
Sara shook, resisting the urge to buck against my mouth. Her skin turned slick. Every time my tongue flicked over her clit she made a sound like something breaking.
“Please,” she said again, and this time I knew what she meant. Please don’t stop. Please.
I didn’t stop. Cazzo, I couldn’t!
I sucked her clit between my lips. She jerked against my face, her thigh tightening around my ear.
Above, her bound hands strained against the belt.
Her breathing turned to ragged, shallow pants that echoed in the stairwell, and beneath that I could hear the wet sounds of my mouth on her, obscene and perfect in the dark.
She came with a beautiful violence.
Her body went rigid, every muscle locking, and then she was pulsing against my tongue in waves as her inner muscles clenched on nothing. An anguished cry was stifled behind her teeth. I worked her through it, my mouth relentless, drawing out each aftershock until she collapsed forward with a sob.
The silence afterward was charged. I could feel her pulse against my kiss.
Sara took shallow, uneven breaths. I pulled back.
My face was wet with her, and I wiped it on the inside of my shirt.
She stared down at me, and I met her gaze through the dark.
Something in my chest had cracked open—a door I’d kept bolted for longer than I cared to remember.
I captured an angel.
I made her mine.
I unhooked her leg from my shoulder and set it gently on the ground.
I pulled her underwear back into place. My fingers lingered longer than they needed to on the warm, damp cotton.
I drew her pajama pants up over her hips with the same care I’d used to remove them, smoothing the fabric over her skin.
She didn’t speak. Her breathing had slowed, but I could feel the questions gathering in the air between us, heavy and unspoken.
She would want to know what happened next.
She would ask if I was coming back—or staying.
I rose to my feet. My knees popped, protesting the long kneel on hardwood. The sound seemed ordinary compared to what I’d done. I brought my knuckles down the slope of her cheek. In the silence, I promised that there was no escape.
“Sleep well, angel,” I murmured.
“What?” she croaked, jerking her hands. “You’re just going to leave me here!”
Smiling, without an answer, I turned and walked away. This was how the scene finished. She would have to free herself from the shadowy bonds.