“Is it only alcohol that gets you orgasmic?” inquired a throaty, feminine voice from across the room.
He turned slowly, reluctantly meeting her gaze. Totally Acme-anviled when their eyes locked, his thoughts scattered like cockroaches. His legs nearly buckled. The mating drive overpowered his senses. Mine, mine, mine pounded through him like a drumbeat, louder than his thundering pulse. A blood-red haze descended over his corneas, his distorted vision allowing only the image of Zena through the flickering flames, his hunger for her all-consuming, his inner beast raging to be freed, to be fed. His need to be inside her, to mark her as his, clobbered him, so compelling he didn’t know how to resist.
No, no, no. Not her. The Queen would string his nuts on a necklace. Belting down his second drink, he returned the tumbler to the sideboard before his fingers tightened on the glass and cracked the crystal. Pressing his hands to his temples, he squeezed his skull like a walnut, trying to prevent a potential bonding from happening. Not helping.
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