It hadn’t been enough. I’d hoped that giving in to the physical desire between us would ease the clawing need in my chest. But it had only reminded my body of what I’d gone without for all these weeks. Months, now.
Not anymore.
Hours.It had been mere hours since Arran’s cock was buried inside of me, and already it was too long.
My fingers were already wet with my desire. I stroked lower, toying with my entrance—
And froze.
I was not alone.
I should have known by the feeling in my chest, burning with need, but not aching. Arran was near.
A slow, repetitive sound filled the bedchamber. Metallic. He was sharpening a blade. I listened for a few strokes more—his battle axe. Again and again, I listed to the long lashes of the file over the blade. He did not realize I was awake.
My fingers began to move again.
Arran swiped the file over the head of his axe. I drew a fingertip along the length of my slit. Again, again. I forced myself to follow his cadence, to imagine it was his touch on me.
My hips started to arch, desperate to increase the pressure. But I forced myself to lie still, to not alert Arran.
His pace increased. He’d found the right angle, his body falling into rhythm. I’d seen him sharpen his axe dozens of times. I could imagine the intense focus on his face, the way his tongue would dart out from between his lips.
I wanted his tongue on me. But all I had were my own fingers, stroking deeper with each swipe of the file against the blade. I could not help myself. I slid a one finger into my pussy. Then two. It still wasn’t enough. I ached with longing, for Arran’s thick fingers stroking inside of me—
The sounds stopped.
I’m caught.
My cheeks burned. So did my breasts. Not from embarrassment, but anticipation. If I threw off the sheets, if I presented my body, needy and trembling, there was no way Arran or his beast would be able to resist.
But then it began again.
Quieter, more precise.
File traded for whetstone.
I sank my teeth into my bottom lip to hold in the moan as my fingers echoed the movement. No more long, repetitive strokes, but continuous, precise circles. I dragged my fingertips around and around my clit as Arran honed his blade.
Oh, Arran.My entire body filled with heat. The sheets burned my skin, but I didn’t pull them off. The scent of Arran’s spice and earth still clung to them. I breathed it in and my pussy began to tremble. I was so close—
A pause.
The almost imperceptible sound of Arran turning over the axe to work on the other side of the blade.
Bastard.He knew. He was torturing me.
But that would not stop me now.
Arran was moving faster. So was I.
I was going to come, to fill the bedchamber with the scent of my satisfaction. My body begged for release. I arched into my own hand, and this time I did not stop myself.
I heard Arran stand, honing the axe against the leather strop. The final step. I shoved two fingers inside of myself, my other hand desperately working my clit.
My eyes clenched shut, but I swore I couldfeelthe strength of Arran’s fingers where they curled around the handle of his axe, as if they were curling inside of me. The pressure was too intense. My chest tightened. So did my pussy. A growl, low and deep, rolled through me.
I plunged over the edge, the walls of my cunt squeezing my hand as waves of wetness soaked the bedsheets.
