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“I think you’re wrong.” I tug at the back of his neck again and press my lips to his. As a cannon of butterflies explodes in my stomach, I suck in a sharp breath. Even intoxicated, I can feel something move through me. My whole body tingles and feels light, with a rush of heat that warms my cheeks.
It’s new.
Different.
Unexpected.
I scrape my nails along the back of his neck and feel his groan rumble in my mouth, his fingers curl into my hips. He tastes like what I’ve unknowingly craved my whole life. Like liquor and dangerous lust. A flavor I’ve denied myself for too long.
When he breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against mine, and I feel his hands tighten around my arms, as if he wants to squeeze the life right out of me. Our breaths mingle, both of us breathing heavily in a fight for air.
“I can’t do this,” he says in a hoarse voice, pushing me away.
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Both.”
Beneath the buzz of alcohol, the creeping tendrils of humiliation climb the back of my neck, ready to swat me upside the head. “You’re …. I was wrong then …. I’m so stupid.” The embarrassment flares beneath my cheeks, and I wrench my arm to get loose so I can find a hole to crawl inside, but his grip only tightens.
“I want to take you now,” he grits out, as if the weight of restraint bears down on him. “To tear these clothes from your body and have you in every way. But you’ll hate me in the morning, and that would be worse than torture.”
“How can I hate you when I want you, too?”
“Not like this, Thalia.” He presses his lips to my forehead. “Get some sleep.” Releasing my arms, he bends forward and picks up his glass from the floor, taking a sip before he strides off.
Out the door.
Chapter 32
My head is pounding when I wake to darkness, my throat dry and scratchy. In desperate need for a glass of water, I climb from the bed and take light steps toward the kitchen, so as not to wake Titus, but as sounds carry down the hallway, I slow my steps to listen.
Before I reach the kitchen, I peek around the wall.
Titus is sprawled naked in front of the fire. His arms flex and glisten, as he lies with his cock in hand, stroking himself. Long lazy strokes that coincide with the easy rise and fall of his chest.
I tuck myself closer to the wall, watching him. Surely, he has to know I’m here. Their senses are supposed to be insanely sharp. Unless he’s drunk. Wouldn’t be impossible with all that wine he dragged in here earlier.
Merciful God, he’s magnificent.
Like watching art in motion, his perfectly sculpted body moves like a machine, and the sounds of his moans hit the back of my neck, sending tingles beneath my skin. There’s something both forbidden and undeniably erotic about watching a man masturbate. Particularly one so mature and brawny as Titus.
An intense ache throbs between my legs, and I have to cup myself, while the urge to rub against something prods my hips. Only, the touch of my hand exacerbates the need.
As the apprentice of a rather unconventional midwife, I grew up knowing and believing masturbation was perfectly natural. It wasn’t until my mother took on the doctrines of the church that it became something negative and discouraged. How I’ve missed those nights, though, lying in my bed, staring up at the dark sky through the cracked window, as I brought myself to orgasm while the rest of the house slept.
Seeing Titus now takes me back to those moments. As I watch his strokes hasten, his back arch, I imagine my body in place of his hand. I imagine the look of ecstasy etched on his face is for me, and I find myself rubbing the heel of my palm against the soft flesh beneath my nightgown.
I want to take him into my mouth, like I’ve read in books and heard other girls my age talk about in their giggling and gossip. I want to taste the metal and fire on my tongue, as I suck the flavor from his skin.
Teeth clenched, he strokes faster. The slapping sounds intensify. His body trembles, muscles so taut they look as if they might snap. He stares down at himself as he seems to be approaching the pinnacle of climax, legs drawn up, while he pants between moans. Tipping his head back once again, he whispers, “Thalia.”
My stomach clenches at the sound of my name on his lips, a tingling rush exploding beneath my skin.
In the next breath, white ribbons shoot up from his cock, his abs flexing as if pumping out every drop of his release.
Watching him climax, that feral side of me flares to life once again. Two weeks ago, I hated the way this world seemed to be so focused on owning and impregnating women, but my thoughts about Titus as of late have proven something more biological and primal is at play out here. They’re all trying to survive, to keep from becoming a dying species, the one way they know how--by producing offspring that will carry their memories and legacy into the future. It’s become clearer to me, the longer I’m on this side of the wall. After all, children are a symbol of hope. Succession. Existence.
In the absence of having to worry about my survival, I was free to dream of other things, like becoming the first female doctor of Szolen. I could be selfish with my pursuits because time wasn’t limited by stronger, opposing forces. Here, it’s different. The people on this side of the wall literally have to seize every moment in life--some more violently than others.
