Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 85108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
“But you never said—” Andi began.
Just then there was a knock at the door.
“Excuse me, but is everything all right in there?” a voice called.
Before either of them could answer, the door slid open revealing Turg, the male-wife of Queen Pantyitch. He hadn’t said a word the entire flight from the Southern to the Northern Continent so Thrax had no idea what the male might be thinking. But the look on his face was one of uncertainty as he stood in their doorway holding a bundle of clothing in his arms.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I heard shouting,” he said, looking pointedly at Thrax.
Thrax felt a growl of irritation building in his throat and had to swallow it down with some difficulty. He wanted to tell the other male to fuck off, but Andi beat him to it.
“We weren’t shouting exactly—just having a spirited disagreement,” she said, frowning. “And I didn’t say you could open my door!” she added, glaring at him.
Turg flinched as though she’d struck him and looked down at his shoes.
“Forgive me, Queen Elladaughter. I was sent to bring you your new clothing and I just thought I should warn you—it’s not permitted for male-wives to speak back to their Queens. If my own Queen were to hear you, she might get the wrong idea about your relationship.”
“You mean she might think I’m not in complete control of my male-wife?” Andi demanded. “Well, I assure you—she’d be wrong. Thrax—come here and get on your knees before me!” she demanded.
Their eyes met and clashed. Thrax knew what she was doing—asserting her dominance over him because she was still angry about their conversation. Part of him wanted to defy her—but another part—a part that had been buried for years but was now emerging again—wanted to obey.
“On your knees, my beautiful boy,” a throaty female voice whispered in his memory. “Crawl for me. And if you’re very good, I’ll let you taste my pussy…”
Unwillingly, he got off the bed and went to her. He dropped to his knees before the Mistress—no, Andi. This was his partner he was kneeling to and they were both playing parts. This had nothing to do with his unquiet past which kept rising to the surface like a murdered corpse floating up from the bottom of a swamp. But it was getting harder and harder to remember that.
“Do you see?” Andi ran her hand over his horns and through his hair, stroking him like she owned him.
A hard shiver ran down Thrax’s back and he leaned into her, pressing his face between her breasts—he couldn’t fucking help himself. He wanted her touch so badly—wanted to feel owned by her. He wanted to give her whatever she demanded because she was the Mistress.
No, that’s Andi, he reminded himself again as he breathed in her warm, feminine scent. Fuck, what was wrong with him? Was that weird Fume that pervaded the air everywhere getting into his brain and making him want to submit?
Thrax had no answers, he only knew he felt torn in two as he knelt there with his arms wrapped around his partner’s waist and his face pressed to her soft breasts. Part of him wanted to get up and end this fucking charade—and the other part never wanted it to be over.
Andi seemed to be at a loss too because after a moment she tapped him on the head.
“That’s enough now, Thrax. I think our visitor gets the idea,” she murmured.
Thrax didn’t want to let go of her—he wanted to wrap himself around the small, curvy Elite and take her to bed. Wanted to spend hours with his face buried between her thighs, tasting her honey and bringing her pleasure as she stroked his horns and called his name while she came over and over. But he knew that was never going to happen so he made himself release her. Pulling away, he rose to stand beside her and looked at the little male-wife who was still watching them.
“Well? Are you just going to stand there all day?” he growled, venting some of his frustration on the other male.
Turg flinched but stood his ground.
“As I said, I was sent to bring you your new clothes,” he said, offering the pile of garments in his arms.
“New clothes? What the fuck is wrong with the clothes we have on now?” Thrax demanded. Well, other than the fact that they were fucking ridiculous, he amended to himself.
“They’re not proper attire for touring the milking farm,” Turg said patiently. “You’re dressed for a formal feast—such clothing can’t be worn around industrial equipment. You might ruin it. And besides, you’d be breaking the dress code.”
“Dress code?” Andi raised her eyebrows. “Do the Delta Salacions change their clothes all the time then?”
“Yes, constantly.” Turg nodded. “In fact, if we hadn’t been in such a hurry to get to the milking farm for the meeting with my Queen’s business partner, we would have changed into traveling clothes. Really, coming all this way in feasting clothing was most inappropriate.” He shivered, as though the breach of dress protocol really bothered him.