The King(116)

“I’ve got the heebs so badly, if I’m alone, I’ll never be able to sleep.”
“Then I shall be pleased to accommodate the request.”
He just had to make sure that was all he did …
“Good. Thank you.” She eyed the Jacuzzi tub beneath its windowsill. “That looks amazing.”
“Allow me to fill it for you.” He went forth and cranked the brass handles, the rushing water crystal clear and soon-to-be hot. “It is very deep.”
Not that he’d tried it out himself.
“There is also a petite cuisine here.” He popped open a hidden door, revealing a squat refrigerator, pint-size microwave, and coffeepot. “And there are victuals in the cupboard above if you get hungry.”
Indeed, he was a master of the obvious, was he not.
Awkward silence.
He shut the little cabinet. “I shall wait downstairs whilst you attend to your—”
Marisol’s breakdown arrived without preamble, the sobs racking her shoulders as she put her head in her hands and tried to hold the noise in.
Assail had no experience comforting females, but he went to her without missing a beat. “Dearest one,” he murmured, as he pulled her against his chest.
“I can’t do this. It’s not working—I can’t—”
“Cannot what? Speak unto me.”
Muffled into his shirt, her reply was clear enough. “I can’t pretend it didn’t happen.” She lifted her head, her eyes luminous from the tears. “It’s what I see every time I blink.”
“Shh…” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s all right.”
“It’s not…”
Cupping her face in his hands, he felt both rage and helplessness. “Marisol…”
In lieu of a response, she grasped his wrists, squeezing—and in the tight quiet that followed, he had the sense she was asking something of him.
Dear God, she wanted something from him.
It was in the stillness of her body, the wildness of her stare, that grip upon him.
Assail closed his eyes briefly. Mayhap he was misreading this, but he didn’t think so—although in any event, she could hardly be credited with sound thinking, given all she had been through.
He stepped back. “The tub is almost full,” he said roughly. “I shall go confirm the accommodations of your grandmother, yes? Call upon me if you need aught before I return.”
Indicating the in-house intercom, he hastily made his exit, closing the door behind him. Falling back against it, he wanted to bang his head a number of times, but did not want to alert her to his conflict.
Passing a hand down the front of his slacks, he intended to rearrange his erection into a socially acceptable position—but the instant contact was made, he groaned and knew he needed to take care of things.
He barely made it down into the bathroom off the first floor office. Locking himself in, he braced his hands on the marble of the sink and hung his head.
He lasted three rapid heartbeats.
The belt came undone with the alacrity of fabric falling apart, and the fasteners of his slacks were just as accommodating—and then his cock, his rock-hard, throbbing cock exploded out from his hips.
Biting his lower lip, he palmed himself and started stroking, his full weight leaning on that arm he had thrown out, the pleasure intense to the point of pain.
The moan he let out threatened to carry, but there was nothing to be done about that. He was too far down the rabbit hole to stop or even alter the course or his response.
Faster, up and back—until biting his lip wasn’t enough: He had to turn his head into his arm and bite his biceps, his fangs sinking deep into the muscle through his sweater, through his shirt.
The orgasm hit him hard, the peaks sharp as knives going into him, the ejaculations caught in his free palm as he covered himself.
Even at the height of release, he honored his Marisol: He deliberately kept all images from his mind, determined to make this solely a physical act.
When it was done, he was not relieved in the slightest.
And he felt dirty even after he cleaned himself.

THIRTY-TWO
Beth found the medication kit on the sink in the bathroom. After freaking out about the condition of the pool table and everything else, she’d gone upstairs and immediately headed across the bedroom to take a shower—whereupon she’d discovered the black leather clutch on the counter between her sink and Wrath’s.
At first, she thought it was a glasses case for one of Wrath’s pairs of wraparounds, except it was soft, not hard.
And it was as she reached out to pick the thing up that the first wave hit her.
Hot, moist air bloomed all over her body, from the back of her neck to the lengths of her legs, from her face and throat to her belly and down to her feet.