Chapter 27
CLEMENTINE
The witch bandages are back, and they itch.
We visited the library the day after my lake incident, and Mor was apologetic about the failure of her rejuvenation spell, giving me a full refund.
She couldn’t tell us why the enchantment only lasted a few hours.
If it was the prolonged exposure to water, me shifting, or if it was only ever going to work for a certain amount of time.
But what is clear is that the fix is not permanent.
And so the research begins once more.
Unfortunately, the bandages seem to be dissolving faster, and I have to get them renewed every other day now. A week after my dark-moon-night episode, and I’m ready to claw my own skin off if that would fix this tedious torment.
Doesn’t help that Carl and Griffith are both super overprotective once more. I could handle it before because they were reasonable. Now they don’t even want me walking in case that might tug at my wound.
Bedrest is boring, especially when Griffith won’t do anything in bed with me other than give me a chaste kiss on the forehead. Maybe the lips if I’m lucky. He says I writhe too much when I’m turned on and that could be dangerous.
I can’t even fucking writhe!
Shrimp doesn’t mind napping beside my bed. I try to tell the overbearing caregivers that I’m perfectly capable of walking my dog and he needs to go out for bathroom breaks.
Griffith installs a massive dog door in his sunroom the same day.
“I hope a family of raccoons invades your house,” I grumble as I watch Shrimp nose through the door and let himself out.
“Even those little trash pandas will smell that a predator lives here.” He gives me a wolfish grin.
Griffith and I have started sleeping beside each other, and Carl hasn’t said a word about the new arrangement. I appreciate his maturity. Also, his trust. After the way I hurt my brother when we were younger, I could understand if he was feeling protective over his friend’s heart.
But right now, I may or may not be planning to torture said friend.
Another night approaches, and Griffith just got back from the bar. He only gave me a quick kiss before disappearing into the bathroom and locking the door.
Not even willing to give me a peep show.
Then he comes out, all damp, only wearing a towel around his waist, and when I proposition him, he says, “Not until you’re healed.”
The fucking nerve.
We lie next to each other—him reading a book, me seething and plotting.
Not attempting to hide my movements at all, I slip my hand under the covers and down the front of my sleep shorts. I’m already damp because of that post-shower view of Griffith.
“What are you doing?” There’s a growly note to Griffith’s voice when he asks.
“Just because you won’t touch me doesn’t mean that I can’t touch myself.”
If the wolf thinks he can restrict where my hands go on my body, I’ll bite him. And not in a sexy way.
“Fine,” he says, as if I needed his sign-off. He closes his book and sets it on the bedside table, then lies down like he’s all set to go to sleep. “But no writhing.”
“I’ll writhe if I want to,” I mutter under my breath.
Sliding my fingers between my legs feels like an act of rebellion, and rather than increase the pain in my side, the beginning sparks of pleasure help distract me from the ever-present ache.
With firm strokes, I circle my clit, using the exact rhythm and pressure that I like. Normally, I’d keep my eyes closed, play out some fantasy in my head to get me going.
But I have all the inspiration I need lying next to me, aggravating as he is. Tilting my chin to the side, I study Griffith as I touch myself.
He’s lying on his back, eyes shut, body rigid, jaw clenched. Not a chance that he’s asleep or anywhere near it. The stubborn wolf is doing his best to ignore me.
Fine. If he wants to pout over there, I’ll stay on my side of the bed and use him.
I trace my eyes over every angle of his face, imagining kissing his brow and cheeks and mouth.
My fangs are sharp behind my lips, wanting a taste.
Unlike vampires, mermaids don’t need blood to sustain us.
But the occasional sip is a treat, like sucking on the best piece of candy you’ve ever had.
I imagine how salty and warm a swallow of Griffith would be. He’d heat me from the inside out.
A small gasp escapes at that thought.
His eyes fly open, latching on to mine and widening when he realizes my hungry gaze is devouring him.
“Fuck, Clem. I can smell how much you want it.”
His nostrils flare, and my thighs grow damp.
“Not it,” I pant. “You.”
He groans another string of curses, turning on his side to face me. But he doesn’t reach out, maintaining a foot of space between us. Still, heat builds in that space, and his attention feels like a firm caress.
“What do you want me to do to you?”
“I want to see how far you can get your tongue inside me.”
Griffith’s head belongs between my legs.
His pupils expand until his eyes look black. “Yeah?”
“I want to taste you.” I run my tongue along the point of my fang. “Would you let me bite deep?”
He jerks forward, as if his body is hooked on a fishing line and I gave a tug. But he stops himself, inches away.
I let out a whimper, neediness growing as I ride my own hand.
“When you’re better, you can ravage me. Mark up my whole body.” Griffith does reach out then, but only to tuck a sweaty strand of hair behind my ear. “I want everyone to know I’m yours.”
His words are the last bit I need to go over the edge, and I bury my face in my pillow to stifle my noises as I jerk against my hand, muscles clenching through my orgasm.
“Gods, Clem. You’re so sexy; it’s torture.” His voice does sound pained, and something hard brushes my leg before he shifts his hips backward.
Before Griffith can stop me, I fist the covers and rip them off of us, exposing my askew PJs and his straining erection.
“Fuck your hand while I watch.” See? I’m willing to compromise.
And Griffith, good boy that he is, obeys. He tugs down the waistband of his briefs, frees a cock that has me salivating, and strokes with a rougher grip than I would have expected.
“I’m going to do that to you soon,” I tell him. “I can’t wait to know what you feel like in my hand. In my mouth.”
Curses roll out on grunts as he thrusts into his own palm.
“How are you going to take me the first time?” I ask, breathless at all the possibilities. “You on top, driving me into the mattress? Me straddling your thighs? Or maybe you’ll bend me over the couch downstairs and fuck me from behind.”
“Gods fucking hell. You’ve got a filthy mouth, Clem.”
“You love it.” I smirk.
“I do.” He holds my eyes with his just before he rolls onto his back, and his body jerks and spills, streams of his pleasure soaking his stomach.
While he’s prone and spent, I lean forward and capture his mouth in a searing kiss. One of my fangs pricks his lip. A bead of rich blood spreads across my tongue, and when I suck to get another drop, Griffith jerks and comes a second time. I worry his eyes might roll back in his head.
I gentle my kiss to a soft trail across his cheek until I reach his ear. “Still alive, wolf?”
He chuckles and wraps me in a careful hug. “For now.”