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.
