Page 56 of Griffin Food

Being close to him has a magnetic effect upon me. The anticipation of his eyes on me—of being close to him—brings a sweet, achy clench between my thighs. My breasts feel swollen inside my sensible woolen dress and impossibly sensitive. Most likely, they are simply a little sore from the attention of my mates, and yet I know there is more to it than that.

This place is weaving a spell upon me, and at its very center is Atlas.

My steps falter as I near the closed wooden door, and the things on the tray jangle loudly. I can’t breathe properly—it’s as though suddenly the dress is too tight. Lifting a shaking hand, I knock.

“Enter,” an imperious voice calls from within.

His air of superiority ought to tick me off; it doesn’t, and a mini spasm grips my womb.

Insufferable male!

I fumble to open the door and push inside.

It’s no use bracing myself for the impact of his presence. It gets stronger every time. His scent saturates the air. Not only his scent, for I pick up Darrion and Fenix, too.

I glance at him briefly, then immediately lower my eyes. His wings snap open and begin wafting gently. They are magnificent, but then again, everything about him is.

The items on the tray rattle ominously as I slide the heavy door back into the jamb and take quick steps to his desk.

“Steady.” His voice is a low rumble and faintly irritated.

The tray clatters as it hits his desk. “Apologies, my lord.” My focus slides to the cushion waiting for me on the floor to the right of his desk. I swallow thickly. My whole body is trembling.

Alive.

Alert.

And still irked. Why did I apologize when it’s his fault that I am in this jittery mess, and further, the tray is very heavy?

A large hand enters my periphery and gathers one of my smaller ones within it.

No, no, no—this is worse. He draws me closer. With his other hand he gently tips my chin, forcing me to face him. His fingers brush over my left cheek.

“You’re not getting enough sleep.”

My eyes flash to meet his.

Images immediately assault me of Rafe and Lark, their hands, their touch, and their cocks… the strange swelling my imagination conjured at the base of Lark’s. My breathing grows unsteady. I’m staring into Atlas’ strange, whirling silver eyes, captivated.

“It’s to be expected,” he says. The feeling of his fingers upon me anywhere is unbearably good. He sighs heavily, slides his hand down from my cheek, over my throat until he reaches the swell of my trembling chest. With an impatient motion, he tugs the bodice of my dress down, exposing my breasts to his lustful gaze.

A dark stain spreads across his cheeks as he cups the weight gently, testing the softness, and pinching my nipple lightly before he moves to the other side and does the same. I’m shaking all over now as he inspects me. There’s a coldness to him—as if I’m nothing but an object. One he owns, one he can choose to look at… or not.

I don’t know why I should like his attention, but I cannot deny that I do. It stirs something inside me, an impossible craving for even this light, deliberate touch. His fingertips linger upon the faint marks left by my mates, both the old and new. He traces here and there, sometimes pinching the bruises lightly, awakening a slow, aching response deep in my core.

My breath catches. He pauses, and I try to steady my breathing. He will stop if he even thinks I’m losing control… that I might climax from this brief touch.

It’s a cruel game he plays, taunting me, testing me, drawing me to the edge of something unnamed until I’m nothing but tension and need… until I am wet. And then later, when my mates return to the nest, I fall upon them with hunger.

His eyes lift to meet mine. He brushes his knuckles down the side of my right breast, moving lightly, back and forth. I try not to lean into the touch. The moment I do, he will stop again.

His lips curl up on one side, almost like he senses the turmoil that runs through me and savors it.

Then his fingers move away, and he pushes the chair back, making space between the spread V of his thighs.

“Put your cushion in place, Violet,” he says.

I nearly trip in my haste to gather the cushion, placing it dutifully between his spread thighs and kneeling upon it. My gaze slides to the arresting bulge tenting his leather pants at eye level. My pulse hammers in my throat, every sense attuned to him.