“Oh.” Calladia felt dizzy at the thought. It had been a long time since she’d received oral, and it had always been clear her partners were doing it out of obligation. “You don’t have to,” she said. “I’m fine without it.”
“But do you enjoy it?”
With him looking her directly in the eye, it was impossible to lie, so she nodded wordlessly.
His smile widened. “I do, too. And I will, the moment you give me permission. I’ll kiss and lick your beautiful cunt until you’re screaming, and then I’ll do it some more. You’ll need to push me away to stop me.”
Sweet. Fucking. Hecate. He was so vehement, she had no choice but to believe him. It made her want to whimper and strip off her jeans.
He whispered the next part in her ear. “Unlike you, impatient witch, I know how to take my time. I’ll make you wait. Just for the first orgasm, you understand. Once you’re begging for it—and you will beg—I’ll give it to you, and after the first I’ll make you come over and over again, even when you claim you can’t take it anymore. Because you can, and I’ll show you how.”
Calladia whimpered, and her knees wobbled. She nearly stumbled, but the hand still anchoring her ass held her steady.
“Oh, my warrior queen,” Astaroth said softly. “Has anyone ever worshipped you the way you deserve?”
Calladia wasn’t sure what she deserved. She wasn’t particularly pure of heart or noble of spirit, and her life had been spent spitting in the faces of people who called her loud, aggressive, unfeminine, embarrassing, not good for optics. She faced the world with teeth and claws bared.
When she didn’t answer, Astaroth growled and shifted his grip from her butt to her hair. “Listen to me,” he said, fisting the strands at their roots. “You deserve everything you want. You should take everything you want, the way you once promised me you would. And if you can’t do that yet, say the word and I’ll do it for you.”
Calladia wasn’t sure if she wanted to leap on top of him or cry. One would be a loss of horny composure, the other a lack of emotional composure, and she wasn’t ready to relinquish either yet, so she grabbed his hand, removing it from her hair. “What would you do after all these hypothetical orgasms?” she asked. When he looked like he wanted to keep giving her a sexy pep talk, she sucked one of his fingers into her mouth and cocked a brow as if to say, Well?
He tipped his head back and groaned. The light shifted over his horns with the movement, and Calladia wondered what they would feel like. They were glossy as obsidian; would they be silky smooth? Cool, or hot like the rest of him?
He gave her the frankest, dirtiest look she’d ever received. “Then,” he told her, “I’d fuck you.”
He didn’t provide details, but he didn’t need to. Calladia’s imagination took over, envisioning all the ways he could take her. Up against a tree, her leg hooked around his ass, or bent over a nearby fallen log. Maybe on her back in the mulch, the two of them too caught up in animal urges to care about comfort or dirt. She’d flip him over before long, riding him hard and fast, and then it would be a battle, like he’d said. A game to find out who would end up on top.
This game had reached the tipping point. They stared into each other’s eyes, breathing heavily, bodies close but barely touching. With the slightest movement, she could turn words into reality.
The look on his face was too delicious though. He looked desperate. And Calladia liked playing games, but she liked winning them even more.
She pulled his finger to her mouth again, sucked it, then bit the tip. Then she dropped his hand and stepped back. “Interesting,” she said. “Let’s keep hiking.”
His exhale was half groan. “Witch, you’re going to kill me.” His erection tented the fabric of his pants. He was going to have a hell of a time hiking like that, and Calladia had enough of the devil in her to like that. It was only fair, since her underwear was soaked and the inseam of her jeans pressed against her clit with every movement.
She winked and turned away. “Try to keep up, demon,” she called over her shoulder as she grabbed her pack and set out again.
TWENTY-THREE
The witch had a cruel streak.
And Astaroth liked it.
He’d spent the afternoon torn between laughing, screaming, and resisting the urge to jerk off into a nearby bush. Whenever he thought he’d wrestled his arousal under control, she’d done something to set it off again. A long, graceful stretch with her arms over her head, followed by touching her toes. A wicked wink over her shoulder as she’d slid her hand over a wrist-sized branch to duck under it. In one particularly cruel moment, she’d uncapped her water bottle, taken a drink, then let some slop over her chest, the water glistening against her tan skin.