I pull on the oversized T-shirt I’ve been sleeping in—one of Reeyan’s that I borrowed because I’m still waiting on my own clothes to arrive—and climb into bed. The fabric smells like him. Cedar and old books and something uniquely his that makes my wolf perk up with interest.
Sleep won’t come. My mind keeps replaying Evangeline’s words. The mate bond triggered something that was always inside you. The abilities are yours. The bond simply gave them room to grow.
The bond.
My hand drifts to my chest, pressing against the place where I feel the constant pull toward Reeyan. Even now, with a locked door and an entire hallway between us, I’m aware of him.Can sense him moving around the house, probably researching or taking notes in that worn journal he carries everywhere.
The ache in my belly grows stronger. More insistent. More demanding than anything I’ve felt before.
I squeeze my thighs together, trying to ignore it. Llewelyn women don’t give in to base desires. We’re taught to maintain control, to rise above physical needs, to value logic over emotion and passion.
Except that’s the curse talking. That’s three hundred years of magical suppression telling me that wanting something—wanting someone—is wrong.
My hand slides lower, tracing over my stomach through the thin fabric of the T-shirt. The touch sends sparks through my nervous system, making me gasp softly into the darkness. When was the last time I touched myself like this? Years, maybe. The curse always made it feel muted, distant, like going through the motions without real satisfaction. Like trying to feel pleasure through layers of thick cloth.
But now…
Now everything feels different. More vivid. More real. More alive.
I think about Reeyan’s hands as they moved across maps and documents today. Long fingers tracing historical passages with such care. Those same hands that can be gentle when handling ancient texts or brutal when protecting me from enemies. Hands that killed Thornridge operatives without mercy to keep me safe.
What would those hands feel like on my body? Would he be gentle or rough? Would he take his time exploring every inchof my skin, or would he claim me with the same focused drive he brings to everything else?
My hand slips beneath the waistband of my underwear, finding slick heat that makes me bite my lip hard enough to sting. I’m already wet. Already aching. The curse’s weakening grip has left me vulnerable to every sensation, every need, every desire I’ve suppressed for my entire life.
I circle my clit slowly, testing the sensation. Pleasure jolts through me like electricity, and a moan escapes before I can stop it. I press my face into the pillow to muffle any other sounds as I continue touching myself, finding a rhythm that makes my hips rock against my own hand.
Images flood my mind unbidden. Reeyan’s messy, dark blond hair sticking up in all directions after he’s been running his fingers through it while researching. The green eyes that see too much, that look at me like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve. The crooked nose that makes him look less like a scholar and more like someone who’s survived real fights. His lean, strong body, as it moved during the combat training I glimpsed through the window yesterday morning.
I imagine those callused hands on my skin. Imagine his mouth hot against my neck, teeth scraping over my pulse point. Imagine him pushing into me slowly, stretching me, filling me while those green eyes watch every reaction cross my face.
My fingers move faster. I’m slick and swollen, every nerve ending alive in ways I’ve never experienced. The pleasure builds in waves, cresting higher with each stroke. I’m panting into the pillow, hips rocking against my own hand as I chase the release building at the base of my spine.
I push two fingers inside myself, imagining they’re his. Imagining the stretch and fullness of him claiming me. My innerwalls clench around my fingers, and I whimper at how empty it feels compared to what I really want.
I think about him taking control. Telling me exactly how he wants me. Using that commanding voice he gets when he’s making strategic decisions about me. Demanding I tell him who I belong to while he’s buried deep inside me, his hand wrapped around my throat just tight enough to make breathing difficult.
The fantasy shouldn’t excite me this much. Llewelyn women are supposed to value independence and autonomy above all else. The idea of surrendering control should be anathema to everything I was raised to be.
But the wanting consumes me anyway. The need to give myself over to someone completely, to trust them with my body and pleasure. To let someone else make the decisions while I just feel.
My thumb finds my clit again while my fingers work inside me. The dual stimulation makes my back bow off the bed. I’m close. So close. The pressure builds and builds until I can’t breathe through it.
I imagine Reeyan’s voice in my ear, rough and demanding.Come for me. Let me feel you.
The thought sends me over the edge. I come with a strangled cry, biting down hard on the pillow as waves of pleasure roll through my body. My inner walls clench around my fingers, and I can feel myself getting wetter as my release coats my hand. The orgasm seems to go on forever as the aftershocks roll through me until I’m trembling and gasping for air.
When it finally subsides, I lie there panting and spent. My heart pounds so loudly I can hear it echoing in my ears. My thighs are slick, and I can feel the wet spot forming on the sheets beneath me.
Then reality crashes back in, making me gasp.
Oh gods. What did I just do?
The guilt hits immediately, even though logically I know there’s nothing wrong with masturbating. But years of Llewelyn training—curse-influenced training—scream that giving in to desire is weakness. That losing control like this is shameful. That pleasuring yourself while thinking about a man you barely know is the height of impropriety.
Except it’s not a weakness. It’s human. It’s normal. It’s what I should have been able to feel all along without magical suppression dampening everything.
Understanding that doesn’t make the mortification any less crushing.
