Strange Cravings
Bishop closed his eyes outside his bedroom door. Listening. Feeling. Learning every terrifying thing that his body and mind knew about his wife and child.
And didn't know.
They were both in every fiber of his being. Literally. And nothing had ever felt more necessary and wrong at once. No mortal should possess what he did. It was too much power, too much knowledge, crammed into too much fallen human.
He didn’t want it.
He turned his attention to the sounds he was hearing. The life force in her blood pulsing inside him. He sensed his focal powers, luring him to press in. See how far he could see, how far he could know.
At feeling what it promised, panic hit him and some mental window slammed shut. The new silence filled him with another fear. His heart hammered as he realized it. He’d turned it off. Air left him and his muscles quaked in the absence of the tireless energy.
Fuck. He could turn it off.
The door opened and he found himself locked in Beth’s troubled stare. He hadn’t heard her.
He stepped in and wrapped her in his arms, their connection turning everything back on and all the way up. A key in an ignition. And she was the engine powering them.
“I can steer it,” he realized on a breath, his mouth pressing on silk, hands claiming.
“Steer what, are you okay?”
The power exchange ramped up between them, sucking away whatever curiosity she’d had. He kicked the door closed, his fingers latching in her hair as his senses located the nearest wall.
“Oh God,” she blasted, nails carving fire along his face when her back met the wall.
He ripped through her panties then waged mechanical warfare with his fucking jeans, his human reflexes unable to keep up. A lust surge flooded out in hungry waves, breaking free of his bones.
He gripped her jaw and kissed her, his canines aching. His cock finally found home in one glorious thrust. His wife’s shriek terrified him while a primal growl shook his vocal cords.
Whatever wound through his muscles claimed both of them. Like the hand of God slowly slid over every inch of their souls then made a tight fist. And pounded them into glorious fucking oblivion.
His every stroke was carefully measured, his mark perfectly hit. The circuit of ecstasy took and gave, sucking in everything, blasting out more—everything—more—everything—more—till they were brought to fucking ruin.
Her hands latched in his hair, and she jerked him to her neck. He slammed his cock and fangs into her flesh, their breaths and bodies seizing.
Beth gave a sharp sob that ripped his heart open. He kept his mouth sealed tight, just feeling it. That power. It stood on the neck of time and held it still. Showing them what that impossible union burning through them was. It was eternity. Tucked inside an all-consuming power of love.
Fuck. Fucking wow.
Bishop felt it slowly receding. A lover’s limbs untangling before returning to the heaven it came from. A heaven that lived inside their bond. Inside their child forged from that bond.
Their breaths gained sound and heat, hers burning right against his face as he softly kissed her tear-soaked skin.
He stroked the hair along her face, staring into her soft gaze. “I can't stop,” she whispered with another sob and more tears.
“I know baby,” he croaked, his pulse still raging in his veins. “But I need to check you, Angel.” He glided his mouth along her silky lips, bringing a bucking lust to his cock. “This fucking animal,” he breathed, her moan tearing through him.
He eased her off him when round two hit with a gas stomping hunger.
“Do not fucking beg,” he warned when that kryptonite power rose with her need.
“Your animal is worse than mine,” he realized, holding her jaw and stabbing his tongue in her mouth.
“So fucking greedy,” he muttered. “So fucking perfect and beautiful.”
He scooped her off her feet and carried her to the bed, setting her gently on it.
“Time for Dr. Bishop?” she asked, her innocent look and tone nothing but a filthy lick on his cock.
“Lay down,” he instructed, helping her with his palm on her chest. “And tell me all your symptoms.”
“The whole list?” she asked, eyeing him.
“Every detail.” His fingers grazed her taut nipples. “Sorry,” he whispered at her gasp.
“You’re not,” she said with a soft smile.
“You’re right,” he confessed, already lost in her gaze.
“I can’t remember.”
He stroked the skin along her forehead. “What can’t you remember?”
Her smile grew then she giggled. “My whole list. Sadly I didn’t get photographic memory from your scary teeth.”
His cock pounced on her open tease, pulling her hand to his mouth. “You want to remember what getting everything you want looks like, Ma Petite? Where is this list? You can read it to me while I finger you.”
The worried look she gave stilled him. “Where is it.”
“In the top drawer of the desk. I add to it as I… need.”
Fuck, what did that mean?
He went to the drawer and opened it, looking.
“Under the first book we still need to read.”
“Fuck, we do,” he murmured, his heart tugging at one of their first memories. “And we will,” he promised, ready to try and use his architect gifts and remake reality just for that.
He pulled out the small notepad, the sight of her messy writing making him hungry to hide her from everything.
“Don’t read it!” she hurried.
He turned, ready to get it over with. He was fucking ill over what he might be about to hear. He handed her the notepad, and she pulled it close to her chest like he might peek.
He couldn’t even smile at how fucking cute she was. “How much,” he asked, needing to prepare.
“How much?”
“How many symptoms.”
She narrowed her brows and eyed the list then flicked her furrowed gaze at him. “I didn’t number them.”
“One page?”
She held her pained stare on him.
Fuck. “Two?”
She blinked, looking at the notepad. “I wrote… kinda big,” she whispered sympathetically, slowly lifting the top page, peeking under. Then the next.
“Just start reading them,” he ordered.
She gave him a worried glance. “Do I have to…”
“Either you read it or I will,” he said, getting pissed.
More intense staring. “I was going to ask if I have to read it laying down.”
Fuck. He crossed his arms on the bed and rested his forehead on it. “I’m mad at myself, not you.”
“Why?”
“You know why,” he said, raising his head. “And it doesn’t matter that it’s nobody’s fault, I’m still mad, I’m pissed, I'm fucking furious.” He pushed away from the bed. “I’d like to aim that at myself since there’s nothing else I can fucking aim it at.”
He paced, feeling her staring at him. Laying on her back like a patient trapped with a psycho doctor. “You can sit up Ma Petite,” he said. “And read your pages of symptoms.”
She sat up, pulling the sheet across her lap, leaving her perfect fucking tits exposed. “I can rewrite them and number them if—”
“Beth,” he said, his tone biting.
Like his fucking lust.
She nodded, her swallow filling his ears. Fucking bite seemed to love two things. Anger and lust. And he had both—one jacking his gifts up, and the other jacking his cock off.
A fat tear rolled down her cheek, and he was at the bed in two seconds, holding her face and kissing her sobbing mouth. “Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry.”
“Way-way-way emotional,” she squeaked. “First one on the list.”
“Very normal, angel, so very normal,” he swore, beating back his self-loathe. “Would you like me to read it? I can, I don’t mind.”
She nodded and handed him the tablet. “Not out loud.”
The tiny words were full of something that stabbed into him. He mentally dug into the mystery and had a head on collision with her barely masked fear. And shame.
Fuck, how was he not feeling her?
He set the notepad on the bed when it hit him and took her face in his hands. “Beth, look at me.”
She fought with herself, barely managing to straighten her crimped face as she put her gaze on him.
“I’m going to tell you something that I think will help you.”
She gave a nod, fighting down a sob as he pet her face.
“The things you want? I give them to you. The things you don’t want? I don’t give them to you.”
She pulled the sheet up between them and wiped her nose, her forehead creased with turmoil.
“The things you want me to know? I can feel them and sense them. The things you don’t want me to know? I can’t feel them and sense them.”
She paused her nose wiping, eyes filling with tears as her hands dropped to her lap. “So it’s me?”
A sob burst from her clamped mouth and he pulled her head into his shoulder. “Shhh, no-no-no Ma Petite, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“That’s exactly what you just said,” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“I’m telling you this because it’s the answer to our problem, oui?”
“What? No it’s not… oui, how is that oui? How is me causing a problem the answer to the problem? I’m causing the problem I’m not causing the answer,” she fussed, confused.
“I’m saying you can do the opposite, you can let me feel the problems you have so I can help you with them? Oui?” He stroked her head and back, so fucking relieved to learn this while his curiosity regarding her gifts niggled at his mind. What else was she accidentally blocking?
She pushed him off, face frozen in some devastating horror. She clamped her hand on her mouth.
“Talk to me angel,” he pled, needing to rip the head off whatever monster lie was suddenly in her head.
“I made you loooooove meeeeee!” She slowly collapsed to the bed, her loud sobs muffled in the pillow.
She shot up with another look of horror, worse than before. “I killed you!”
Oh fuck, fuck. Bishop tried to pull her to him and she fought.
“You ran after me!” she screamed, struggling to climb out the bed. “He told me, Spook told me they took me and you ran after me and they killllllled youuuuu!”
Bishop pulled her off the bed, cradling her tightly in his arms.
“Let me go!”
The scream ripped into his mind and muscles and he fucking dropped her, barely catching her before she hit the floor.