Chapter 24: The Eighth Thing

That night the pack house was quiet, and Rosalind led him down the upstairs hall by the hand.

They stopped at the last door on the left.

It was the Luna's room, the one he had stood outside for months.

Dorian looked at the wood.

His breathing changed.

"I said the spring," Rosalind said.

"You did."

"I lied. I'm tired of waiting for it." She put her palm over his on the door. "Open it."

His bandaged hand shook on the handle.

He pushed.

The door swung inward on a warm room with a fire lit and the wide bed turned down.

Somebody had been in to air it and had left a candle on the sill.

"Nobody ever stopped," he said, hoarse.

"No."

He stepped through, and she shut the door behind them, and put her back against it.

"Now," she said.

He did not need telling.

He crossed the floor in two strides and took her face in his hands.

He kissed her hungrily, and he did not let go of her face.

She opened her mouth to him, and his tongue slid against hers, and she heard herself moan.

Her hands went to his shirt buttons.

She undid them one at a time, and slid the cloth off his shoulders, and her fingers found the new pink scars on his back.

She kissed each one.

"Rosalind."

"Quiet."

She walked him back to the bed and pushed him down on it.

She stood over him while she undressed, slowly, her coat and then her sweater, her skirt, until she wore nothing.

He watched her, wanting her, with his good hand twisted in the quilt.

"Come here," he said.

"Not yet."

She knelt between his knees and undid his belt.

His cock sprang free into her hand, hard and heavy, with a bead of wet at the tip.

He swore, softly and reverently.

She took him in her mouth.

She went down slowly, feeling the heat and weight of him on her tongue, and Dorian's whole body arched off the bed.

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