Page 87 of Griffin Food

I don’t argue with him. I sense that arguing will not serve me well.

“And you will have to learn to behave before you will get your hot little lips around my cock.”

I have done nothing but behave, but I keep my lips sealed and don’t point this out. I turn my nose up a little, like I’m not even interested in his cock.

He chuckles.

My eyes flash to meet his. He is enjoying himself. I am not. These mountains are apparently full of griffins. How did I manage to find one with such an indomitable will?

His hand goes to his belt. My eyes widen of their own volition, even though I tell myself I don’t want to give him anything. He undoes it slowly, and then the buttons holding his trousers tight around his cock, one at a time. I wet my lips, riveted, the scent already reaching me as he lets the material part.

The lighter material of his underthings strains to contain his girth. My eyes nearly pop out of my head. He looms—broad and immovable. I have vague memories of our arrival, of them watching us in the chamber naked, but I was in heat then, distracted. Now it’s right here before me. The beast is doing this on purpose, taunting me with what I cannot have, making me suffer.

He leans forward and drags the bodice of my gown down on one side and then the other, slow and deliberate, exposing both my breasts. I can’t breathe properly. I can’t think. My mind is full of a strange buzzing noise. My slick is already trickling down my inner thighs.

He strokes his fingertips around my right nipple. It puckers tightly. I scarcely breathe, anticipating him pinching it, craving the pleasure, and yet knowing it will only make me feel worse.

He doesn’t. And instead leans back. And then he drags his pants and underthings down, allowing his thick, heavily ridged cock to spring free.

A weak, needy sound escapes my lips. He does not have a knot, but rather a spiral of ridges running the length.

He strokes his fingers along the shaft, cups his balls lightly, before running his hand back up once more. He pushes the hot flesh away from his body before squeezing almost cruelly. Pre-cum leaks from the tip—clear, sticky goodness—trickling down to meet his fingers, his scent filling my nose.

“Is this what you want, Violet?”

I cannot tear my gaze away, even to glare at him. He strokes it absently. It seems to grow impossibly thicker with every passage of his hand.

“You want to feel this inside your needy cunt?”

I nod, my breath little more than a pant, and my core throbbing with need.

“Make no mistake, Violet, that if I give you this, then you shall be mine. Is that what you are asking for? To be mine?”

In this heightened moment, as I watch him stroke himself, I understand this is a man of iron will. Who can and will stop at any point he chooses. A man in full command of himself, his emotions, and instincts. He is not like Fenix, who might let his instincts carry him away. Nor like Darrion, who embodies tempered restraint, yet gives himself away when he leaves his silk jacket in my nest.

And I crave him all the more for his control. I crave to be his. To find a chink enough to make me his.

His fingers still and then move away. To my deepest dissatisfaction, he puts his cock away and, in a no-nonsense way, does his buttons and buckle back up.

Stubborn male.

My eyes flash to his.

“The truth,” I state boldly, no longer afraid. “Is that I am already yours.”

Atlas

She is already mine.

I don’t move or even breathe for the longest time in the wake of her declaration. She tells me in clear, unambiguous terms that she is mine, and has been for a while. I don’t claim to be a poetic male. I have neither the words nor the nuance to articulate these feelings beyond it is like a cataclysm going off inside of me.

Perhaps to an outsider, it might seem she was merely the first omega I met. That this is no more than nature at work. That I only imagine love at first sight, that every moment in her presence has not put me deeper under her spell.

Entranced.

Besotted.

Definitely obsessed.