Page 70 of The Blight of Hollowmire

“Renard?” her voice is rough is sleep, and she looks at me in confusion. When she takes in the position of her body, she startles, yanking her hand from my breeches and tumbling off me, nearly falling to the floor.

Sexual frustration, fear, and shame war with my senses, but none are as strong as the urge to soothe her panic.

“Be at ease,” I say roughly, moving to get out of bed. “Nothing catastrophic happened. Do you have any memory of what you said just now?”

She shakes her head, pulling the blankets up around her chin as if she can ward off what happened.

“Go back to sleep,” I say, shoving my feet into my boots. “We can discuss everything in the morning.”

“Where are you going?” Her voice is small. “Why was I on top of you? What were we doing? What were you doing? Why do I taste blood—oh gods, did I bite you?”

I sigh. “I was paid a visit by the Blight Mother.”

Even in the darkness of the room, I can see her eyes widen.

“Tell me what happened,” she demands.

“I swear I shall tell you all that transpired in the morning. Please, just go back to sleep. I need to be alone—I need to think. All will be well, just… get some rest.”

She lies down with reluctance, but I am near to crawling out of my skin with the emotions riding me, and cannot discuss this just yet. I head down the stairs and out the door, taking deep breaths of the cold night air. I go check on Magnar, resting peacefully in the warm stables, and venture around the back of the inn to a quiet spot overlooking the forest at the bottom of the Passage of Teeth.

Feeling the acute humiliation swirling in my overheated blood, I unlace my breeches and grip my painfully hard erection. Even with the fear of the Blight Mother, even beneath the horror of her violation of Vireth’s body and her private thoughts, even with the shame of my true purpose and my reluctance to be honest with Vireth… even with it all, I cannot deny myself the slaking of this base need. I am a but a weak man and a failed knight.

In my mind I return to the sensations from moments before—her lips and tongue against my skin, her fangs piercing my flesh, her hand stroking me, demanding my pleasure like the gods demand sacrifice. Precum beads the tip of my cock as my desire hammers at me, fiercer than anything I’ve known. A freezing wind whips up around me but it does nothing to ease the heat, and I would swear it carries her scent—the scent of damp soil, petrichor, and faint traces of rosemary soap. Even the breeze sounds like her moans of pleasure, forever branded in my memory from the precious few touches I’ve been allowed.

My hand works faster, matching the pace of my racing heart when I fantasize about the wet warmth between her legs, what flavor her cunt might be, what shade her nipples might be, the look on her face when she finds her pleasure. Through it all, her voice moaning lascivious encouragement—demanding, offering, begging. In what feels like both an eternity and also no time at all, pleasure shoots down my spine and I find my release, spending into a pile of melting snow at my feet.

Some of my tension looses on an exhale, and I become aware of the phantom sensation of being watched. A cursory glance down the nearest alleyways yields nothing, until I lift my gaze higher and see a pair of oxblood eyes staring down at me from the second-story window.

Oh, hells.

14

Vireth

I shouldn’t have watched.

Gods know I shouldn’t have watched for so many reasons—certainly because it is none of my business what Renard does with his body, and certainly because I should care not one whit about a man’s needs, and most certainly because I don’t know what just happened or why I was atop him, and if that was the reason he needed to depart in a panic. Yet when he barreled from the room as if the gods themselves were at his heels, I couldn’t help myself—fear and anxiety demanded I keep an eye on him, and then when he started to pleasure himself, I was frozen by breathless curiosity.

Why? Who does he think of in such moments? Is it me—and is that why he seems so angry about it?

Heat climbs up my neck when he catches me watching, but I cannot bring myself to look away—to hide. Desire tingles between my legs, my sex already soaked from whatever transpired in my sleep. From here, I watch Renard scowl and stalk off through the darkened streets. I suspect he will not return for some time.

I make my way back to the bed, the fabric of my shift brushing lightly across my oversensitive nipples. I need sleep—I know I need sleep, especially with the weight of all that has happened and all that has yet to pass.

Sleep eludes me, however. The savory, metallic tang of Renard’s blood lingers in my mouth—along with the salty musk from his skin. I can still feel the shape of his body beneath mine, the impossibly soft skin of his hard cock… if only I could remember the rest of it. I pray I did not take advantage of him, or set us at odds—even more than we usually are.

Seemingly of their own volition, my fingers begin to trail down my body. They are not Renard’s hands, but something inside me clamors to be touched. Over the last few years, my desire has become a chaotic thing, barely able to be forestalled on some days—buried in ashes on others. Since finding Renard, something has awakened in me that sets my heart racing and my sex pulsing. What I cannot be certain of is whether that has something to do with the absence of leywort, the fledgling Blight Mother, or simply my proximity to a man that is—by even the most ungenerous standard—ferociously handsome.

I shouldn’t have watched, because now I need.

Fingertips skittering down the fine lawn of my shift, I pluck at the tightening puckers of my nipples and feel bright pleasure arcing through my body. The pillow next to me carries traces of Renard’s scent—salt, leather, apples, and sun-warmed wheat—and I inhale greedily as my other hand hikes up the hem of my shift to caress my sex. My pussy is slick with desire and overheated, almost too sensitive as I find the tight nub of pleasure and begin to stroke it, imagining it is Renard’s touch that has me coming out of my skin. The way he sometimes looks at me as if I am mysterious and attractive is intoxicating—even if it is only motivated by curiosity and fear. It has been a long while since I’ve felt desired, and the thrill is heady.

Faster and faster I circle my fingertips, yearning instead for Renard’s clever fingers, or sharp tongue, or even the tip of his cock, and suddenly I shatter, pleasure fracturing from the tips of my toes to the top of my antlers. Something deep inside me is soothed by the little death, yet something in my heart feels ever more hollow.

Lust temporarily sated and sulking companion still off in the night, I heave a great sigh and sink deeper into the bed. Dawn must be scant hours away, but finally I am claimed by a thick and dreamless sleep.

I wake to a rose petal sky a few hours later, the space beside me in bed cold. Renard returned at some point in the night and he sleeps on the floor—stubborn fool—curled atop his cloak near the hearth. His snores are softer now than they were in the forest, but I still hope for him to gather a few more precious moments of rest before the difficulties ahead of us.