Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Violet
The items on the tray rattle faintly as I carry them to the griffin lord’s room. My breath quickens with every step, for every step takes me closer to him. I can almost taste his scent lingering in the air—an anticipation that sets a flock of butterflies to flight inside my belly.
Being close to him has a magnetic effect upon me.
The anticipation of his eyes on me—of being close to him—brings a sweet, achy clench between my thighs.
My breasts feel swollen inside my sensible woolen dress and impossibly sensitive.
Most likely, they are simply a little sore from the attention of my mates, and yet I know there is more to it than that.
This place is weaving a spell upon me, and at its very center is Atlas.
My steps falter as I near the closed wooden door, and the things on the tray jangle loudly. I can’t breathe properly—it’s as though suddenly the dress is too tight. Lifting a shaking hand, I knock.
“Enter,” an imperious voice calls from within.
His air of superiority ought to tick me off; it doesn’t, and a mini spasm grips my womb.
Insufferable male!
I fumble to open the door and push inside.
It’s no use bracing myself for the impact of his presence. It gets stronger every time. His scent saturates the air. Not only his scent, for I pick up Darrion and Fenix, too.
I glance at him briefly, then immediately lower my eyes. His wings snap open and begin wafting gently. They are magnificent, but then again, everything about him is.
The items on the tray rattle ominously as I slide the heavy door back into the jamb and take quick steps to his desk.
“Steady.” His voice is a low rumble and faintly irritated.
The tray clatters as it hits his desk. “Apologies, my lord.” My focus slides to the cushion waiting for me on the floor to the right of his desk. I swallow thickly. My whole body is trembling.
Alive.
Alert.
And still irked. Why did I apologize when it’s his fault that I am in this jittery mess, and further, the tray is very heavy?
A large hand enters my periphery and gathers one of my smaller ones within it.
No, no, no—this is worse. He draws me closer. With his other hand he gently tips my chin, forcing me to face him. His fingers brush over my left cheek.
“You’re not getting enough sleep.”
My eyes flash to meet his.
Images immediately assault me of Rafe and Lark, their hands, their touch, and their cocks… the strange swelling my imagination conjured at the base of Lark’s. My breathing grows unsteady. I’m staring into Atlas’ strange, whirling silver eyes, captivated.
“It’s to be expected,” he says. The feeling of his fingers upon me anywhere is unbearably good.
He sighs heavily, slides his hand down from my cheek, over my throat until he reaches the swell of my trembling chest. With an impatient motion, he tugs the bodice of my dress down, exposing my breasts to his lustful gaze.
A dark stain spreads across his cheeks as he cups the weight gently, testing the softness, and pinching my nipple lightly before he moves to the other side and does the same.
I’m shaking all over now as he inspects me.
There’s a coldness to him—as if I’m nothing but an object.
One he owns, one he can choose to look at… or not.
I don’t know why I should like his attention, but I cannot deny that I do.
It stirs something inside me, an impossible craving for even this light, deliberate touch.
His fingertips linger upon the faint marks left by my mates, both the old and new.
He traces here and there, sometimes pinching the bruises lightly, awakening a slow, aching response deep in my core.
My breath catches. He pauses, and I try to steady my breathing. He will stop if he even thinks I’m losing control… that I might climax from this brief touch.
It’s a cruel game he plays, taunting me, testing me, drawing me to the edge of something unnamed until I’m nothing but tension and need… until I am wet. And then later, when my mates return to the nest, I fall upon them with hunger.
His eyes lift to meet mine. He brushes his knuckles down the side of my right breast, moving lightly, back and forth. I try not to lean into the touch. The moment I do, he will stop again.
His lips curl up on one side, almost like he senses the turmoil that runs through me and savors it.
Then his fingers move away, and he pushes the chair back, making space between the spread V of his thighs.
“Put your cushion in place, Violet,” he says.
I nearly trip in my haste to gather the cushion, placing it dutifully between his spread thighs and kneeling upon it. My gaze slides to the arresting bulge tenting his leather pants at eye level. My pulse hammers in my throat, every sense attuned to him.
He pours himself tea before sliding the cup and saucer across the desk. The sounds seem amplified—the quiet clink of porcelain, the soft rustle of paper as he opens a scroll and begins to read. Leaving me needy and kneeling, my eyes glued to the thick girth of his cock.
I stay very still, aware of his nearness, of the quiet command that always seems to fill the space between us.
At first, I used to keep my eyes lowered, but now I can’t help but be aware of him, of the way he moves, breathes, even a faint scrap of his fingertips as the scroll is adjusted so he can read down.
How I itch to undo his buckle and free him of what appears to be painful bounds. To touch and taste. To savor his aroused scent directly from the source.
How his mere presence drives me utterly wild.
I feel his attention shift from the scroll to me. I don’t look up, continuing to feast my eyes upon his cock, yet knowing he is watching. When his hand reaches down to pet my hair, I lean into the touch before I can stop myself.
“You’re particularly restless today,” he rumbles. “Did your mates not give you enough attention last night?”
The tension inside me feels alive, pressing against my skin, impossible to contain. I swallow hard and shake my head.
“No?” He sounds amused.
His fingers leave my hair. I want to sob with frustration, but somehow, I bite down on my lower lip and hold it in.
He returns the scroll to the table, takes a sip of his tea, then lifts the domed lid over his food and lets it fall against the desk with a soft clatter.
He leans forward, the space between us grows charged, the bulge of his cock drawing closer. I should move back, give him space, but I don’t—I willfully stay there until the bulge is right against my cheek.
Then he takes it away, leans back, and holds out a forkful of food to me. “Open,” he says.
I obey without question, my lips parting as I wait. He pushes in a forkful of fluffy scrambled eggs, and I close my lips around the mouthful. He slides the fork out slowly before brushing his thumb across my cheek as I chew and swallow.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs. His thumb trails lightly over my lips. Then he leans forward again and brushes a kiss against my forehead. The air seems to crackle like the moment before a storm.
Another forkful follows. I open. I eat. His fingers graze my lips again—gentle and deliberate.
He watches me eat.
I watch the bulge between his thighs. I’d rather be feeding on him.
“Your blush is so pretty,” he says. His fingers skim down my throat, and my breathing starts to stutter again. He casually cups my breast and lightly squeezes my nipple. The contact leaves a throbbing awareness that lingers long after he’s withdrawn and goes back to his scroll.
I kneel there, my cheeks burning. Where is this going? What comes next? Am I merely a plaything, a distraction—something he likes to touch and handle now and then? Maybe he does this with all the attendants who bring him food.
The surge of jealousy that runs through me is sharp and irrational. My involuntary growl is small and a little feral.
He stills. I feel his attention on me, but I don’t dare look. His cock flexes behind the leather.
“Get up.”
I don’t move or breathe.
“Get up, now.”
My heart beats a wild rhythm as I stumble to my feet.
“Bend over the desk.”
My eyes flash to meet his.
“Don’t make me tell you twice.” He slides the tray aside to make space. “Bend. Over. Now.”
A mini climax rocks my core as I fold myself over his desk, my naked breasts crushed against the wooden surface. This is new. Shocking. He has never told me to do this before. My mind immediately goes to those few occasions when Rafe has disciplined me… only this feels different.
I start, feeling him lift my skirts, raising them right up until my bare ass is exposed and the woolen folds are around my waist. The air feels cool against my skin, and I’m trembling violently, almost faint with nerves and anticipation.
His touch is light against one ass cheek before it slides down the back of one thigh and up the other, the movements are again measured and deliberate, like he is studying my every reaction.
He taps my inner thigh. “Spread your legs, little red.”
My mind is full of white noise. I do as he asks, parting my thighs slowly.
“Good girl.” His thumb pauses close to my core. Here, he carefully pulls me open, exposing my most intimate place to his gaze.
I can smell my arousal, feel the throbbing there, and I’m sure he must see the evidence for himself.
Then, abruptly, his fingers are gone, leaving me waiting, unsure what comes next. The faint sound of paper shifting tells me he has returned his attention to a scroll.
This is even worse than kneeling on the cushion, where I must stare at the bulge of his cock, and where every moment is a test of will. The tension inside me builds until it’s almost unbearable.
A knock sounds on the door. A jolt runs through my core, and I start to rise.
“Stay,” he says, his voice a low, commanding growl.
I freeze, my instincts warring between obedience and fear of whoever is outside seeing me like this, so shamefully exposed.
“Enter,” he barks.
The door creaks open immediately. Footsteps. The air changes as a new presence fills the room.
The footsteps falter as the newcomer takes in the scene, though I don’t dare lift my head to check.
And then, a familiar scent tickles my nose.
Darrion. The regal male with ash-blond hair. The one with a smile that is more of a smirk. I do not like him. And yet my inner hussy likes his scent, responds to his presence, to the power in his body… and his wings.
The air crackles, and I sense his wings unfurl, feel the faint waft in the air.
I keep my eyes tightly shut. The silence is long and loud. Are the two men staring at each other or at me?
“She looks lovely,” Darrion finally says, his aristocratic voice making my stupid girl parts flutter.
“She does,” Atlas agrees.
Slick tickles down my inner thigh.
I gasp at a light, brief touch, then hear a low sound that might be a sigh or a groan.
Did he just taste me?
“Do you want to take a seat?” Atlas asks.
No answer, only footsteps, the scrape of a heavy wooden chair, and another scrape as it dropped down behind me. It creaks as Darrion sits in it.
Don’t think about where he is looking.
Atlas adjusts my dress. The skirts had slipped a little, and he now ensures they are well out of the way.
Satisfied, his hand returns to caress my ass.
The silence stretches on, thick and heavy.
The air feels too warm, and every sense is heightened.
The desk is hard beneath me, my body tense and waiting.
But I don’t move. Yet more of my arousal seeps out, trickling down my thighs… dripping to the floor.
“Gods,” Darrion mutters, his voice rough.
“What did you want?” Atlas asks quietly, still toying lightly, never once moving closer to where I need.
“There has been a sighting,” Darrion replies. “Fenix took out a patrol.”
“Earlier than typical,” Atlas says. “Keep me posted.”
Without another word, Darrion rises, carries the chair back to its original place, and leaves the room.
“You may lower your skirts and kneel on your cushion,” Atlas says.
My legs nearly give out as I rise. Somehow, I manage to drop to my knees again and resist the urge to fall upon him like a hussy.
He eats, occasionally pausing to feed me, and reads yet more scrolls.
When he finally holds out his hand, I must fight down a sob. I place my hand in his, knowing he’s about to help me to my feet, smooth my dress, and send me on my way.
“You’re very unsettled today,” he says—and my eyes flash to meet his. “This is probably a mistake, but so be it.”
He scoops me into his arms and settles me on his lap.
I burst into tears.
“There,” he murmurs. He draws me closer, tucking my cheek against his chest, a low, soothing sound rumbling from deep within him.
I cry quietly, without even knowing why.
“It’s all right,” he says. “Everything will be all right.”
I don’t believe him, but his steady warmth surrounds me, and his scent fills my nose. I cling to him, not wanting him to let me go. He holds me. His tea and urgent scrolls, forgotten.
I fall asleep. My rest has been fitful lately, and when I wake, I’m still in his arms.
“There,” he says. “Do you feel better now?”
“No,” I admit. I’m not one for petulance—I’m the least petulant of all my sisters—but after weeks of this restless hunger and ever-present arousal, I’m nothing but a creature.
He tips my chin until he can see my face and smiles. He should smile more often. It is undoubtedly the most beautiful thing in the world. I want to kiss him, to press my lips to that smile.
Leaning forward, he kisses my forehead—a sweet, tender gesture that isn’t nearly enough. Then he straightens my dress, sighing as he covers my breasts, and sets me back on my feet.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Violet,” he says.
I’m dismissed. He returns to his scroll. I pick up the tray and, more confused than ever, quietly leave.