My free hand lifts her off my face, and I hardly have the breath to speak. “Clara. I don’t want to hurt you, but I must….”
Her mouth pops my erection free, and she gives me her approval. “Yes, king. Pull my hair and fuck my mouth.”
With a growl, I wrap her hair around my fist and do what I need to do with her.
“My gods. My queen is not a human but a goddess.”
Chapter Eleven
Clara
I have no idea how long I’ve been trapped in here with my elf, now my husband, apparently.
My prison has become a love nest, and one I never want to leave.
Now that I’ve figured out that there are no doors, and we simply flit in and out at Eldrin’s command, I couldn’t just walk out anyway.
My elf and I have spent long hours trying all manner of wicked delights, carefully avoiding any more “inseminations,” as El puts it.
Sleeping next to someone who radiates heat is a dream for someone like me, always cold.
El is so sweet with me, wrapping me up under a pile of blankets, insisting I use his body as a mattress.
“I must feel you on me at all times. When I drift off to sleep, I will panic if I wake up and don’t feel you nearby.”
The truth is, I find it endearing and wonderful.
“I have been on many dates with men I’ve met online, hoping I had met the one. This last one with that guy was the worst ever. But then I met you, and it turned out to be the best. Maybe I should send Daren a thank you note,” I tease.
El growls. “Your pissant date is not welcome in these woods, or he will be subjected to a far worse punishment.”
I giggle. “So sexy when you’re surly like that.”
My husband rolls me over and caresses my belly. “And you should be punished too for coming to my woods to choose a Christmas tree.”
I sit up in bed and stare down at him, ready to defend myself.
“I wasn’t planning on stealing any of your trees. I’ll have you know I meant to choose a tree from the farm. Totally above board.”
I see the evil grin on El’s face and know he’s teasing me. I wish there were hair on his chest to pull because I would. “You’re becoming a little too human with your teasing,” I say, tweaking a nipple playfully.
There are long hours spent talking in front of the fire, eating his tremendously satisfying elven food, dozing in his magnificently soft bed. But my favorite part is drifting off to sleep with him reading to me aloud. He reads to me from memory, any book I can name. If he hasn’t read it, the trees provide it to him. It’s too strange, magical, and romantic that I never want this life to end.
And still, in the back of my mind, I know, someday it will.
One morning I awaken to El drawing designs on my back with his finger.
I smile and tell him he’s giving me chills.
“Can you guess what I’m writing?”
“Is it English?”
“No,” he says. “I’m asking you a question in Elvish.”
“If it’s not Tolkien Elvish, then I’m lost.”
I wait for him to dismiss the author’s invented language, but he doesn’t.
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