Rory
I clench the countertop so hard my knuckles whiten, barely restraining the urge to— God help me—charge.
Every bone, every muscle, is a live wire coiled around a single, obsessive focus: her.
The whole room vibrates like it’s tuned to me, as if my porcelain herd is amplifying the energy I’m projecting.
My tail whips behind me.
My heart pounds in my ears.
My breath comes out in ragged, wide-nostril snorts.
I attempt to count my breaths, to count anything, but never make it past four; the distraction of her is too overwhelming.
I want to run, to chase, to pin.
I want to gore everything that stands in my way.
I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve never needed so much restraint to stop from losing control. I’ve never wanted to see, smell, touch, and possess someone so utterly.
The idea of following her back there has my cock swelling so fast it aches.
I grip the counter harder, fighting the urge to simply claim her as mine right now—or at least whip out my cock and release this painful pressure.
I envision running its head, thick and leaking, down her back, relishing the bumps of her spine until it nestles into the crook of her ass.
Then, carefully, thrusting forward, slicking myself in her folds, bumping against her clit, and making her wail out my name.
My name. I should introduce myself. See if she has any questions.
Yeah, I’ll do that. That’s a perfectly normal thing to do.
I’ll wow her with my knowledge of bone china. Tell her she’s my fated mate. Then bone—no…no! I can’t do that.
I try to remind myself of what my mother, a human, told me of her claiming by my father, a minotaur. While his claiming of her was not unwelcome at the time, what followed (aka me) certainly was.
Humans don’t have fated mates, and even though my father was thoroughly devoted to my mother, she grew to resent his overbearing presence.
Luckily for him, he died when I was still a baby—before her spitefulness around being chosen by a fate she couldn’t even sense really seeped in.
I, however, was not so lucky and bore the brunt of her bitterness.
I skirt the counter, but stop myself before entering the depths where I know she explores. My tail is still thrashing to the beat of my racing heart, and my breath is still coming out in desperate, horny—excuse the pun—snorts.
I can’t go back there like this—I’ll break something.
I dip in front of a curio cabinet, and check my reflection in its mirrored backing. I attempt to straighten my hair, improve my appearance in any conceivable way, but all I accomplish is making myself somehow look more deranged and more lecherous.
If I go back there like this, I’ll scare her. I gotta get myself together first.
A clink of porcelain on porcelain as a teacup somewhere in the labyrinth of my shop is returned to its mate—its saucer—breaks through my resolve to stay put.
My mate.
I should check in on her.
There is a non-zero chance she will topple an entire shelf of teacups if she continues to move through my wares the way she came in.
She’s all chaos and movement and hotness. I should make sure she doesn’t break anything—especially not my heart.
I lower, and I squeeze between the curio cabinet and a Moda Domus Riviera display, careful not to graze my horns against the shelving.
I squint, peeking between a tureen and sugar bowl designed to look like large sea shells, hoping to get a glimpse of her and hoping that the display sufficiently prevents her from getting glimpses of me.
I want to see her. I need to see her. But I am terrified she will catch me leering.
I don’t see her, so I move from my precarious pelagic perch and follow the scent of sun-warmed strawberries and honeysuckle.
My cock is so painfully erect it’s not just my horns that I need to watch out for as I weave through my wares. I press against an endcap, tucking my erection into my waistband so that it doesn’t jostle the nearby teacup display.
I stand, frozen, and breathe her in silently.
Mine. My fated mate.
I’m unable to remain still for long. My curiosity, my desire, my fear, shift me forward slowly—just enough so that one eye can peer into the aisle. I know this level of caution is pointless; my horns make this type of concealment anything but stealthy.
She’s there! Examining a teaset on the lowest shelf.
Kneeling on the linoleum, bent fully at the waist, ass in the air pointed right at me.
Her skirt is rucked just enough to reveal pale thighs and—I adjust my glasses—oh, fuck—the tiniest shadow of red lace.
It’s as bright as the inside of a summer fruit, and perfectly matches the wild flaming cloud of hair.
Wait…is she wearing panties or is that…
The vision is so lurid it’s as if she’s a temptress staged by the gods themselves to test me. Test what? I don’t know, but gods, I am being tested.
What little blood not already in my dick floods to it so quickly I nearly faint.
A low-pitched bellow explodes from my core, but I suppress it—sorta—by pressing my hand over my mouth.
I stay put, watching her for what is definitely an inappropriate amount of time, using all my willpower not to gallop toward her, bury my nose in her hair, and sniff.
My heart knocks so loud I worry she’ll hear it, but she seems oblivious to my presence.
Oblivious until she says, “Oh, hey,” upside-down, ass still pointed at me.