Page 17 of Fathom

I shouldn't have let it grow so long.

I shouldn’t be holding her.

She had pushed me towards the bed with determination, insisting that I sleep with her, and for a brief moment, I fooled myself into thinking it would be okay if I gave her what she was demanding. She was so soft. I loved touching her, so I gave in and pulled her into my arms. The moment that she settled against me, her squishy form pressing against me like it had always belonged there, the instinct had roared up within me.

The ache in me, the need, the hunger.

I wanted to bite her, to sink my teeth into her throat and tear it out.

That desire filled me with horror even as I let out another snarl.

I never wanted to hurt anyone. It was why I was here, in this apartment, instead of where I was supposed to be.

I couldn't get away from it if I stayed home.

The instinct clawed its way up my throat, and I snarled into the air as I snapped my teeth around nothing at all, lifting my face up so that those cruel teeth were away from her, even as my arms tightened around her, pulling her flush against my body, rubbing against her, preventing the chance that she would escape.

I couldn’t let her go; she was mine.

I had to let her go.

I had to get off this bed and go to the other side of the room and keep my instincts in check. I could feel saliva building in my mouth. I needed to calm down. I couldn't calm down. My heart was beating with the rhythm of a song as old as time, and as I felt her softness press against me, vulnerable and mine, the heat of my desire roared, stiffening every part of me, including the part of me that pressed against her belly.

Her cold hand slid down my body, and I felt the trail of her touch like it was being carved into my flesh with claws of desire.

Her fingers moved along the edges of where our bodies were pressed together and found the edge of my trousers, tracing them.

I sucked in a sharp breath, and suddenly my hunger ran straight into the brick wall of a new instinct.

Every ounce of my attention focused on her gentle touch.

My body heated, the addictive craving pushed back by a sudden, shocking awareness of the soft curves of her, of her delicate touch, of the taste of her skin as the strands of my hair slipped up along her bare leg. She had put on one of my shirts again to go to bed. She was drenched in the scent of me.

She was soft, vulnerable, and she was mine.

She shifted, and my grip on her relaxed, just enough to give her the room to lift her elbow and angle her fingers into the edge of my trousers.

She slid her hand down.

I let out a gasp as her soft palm slid against my bare skin.

The blood rushed down away from the swirling torment of my desire to bite, to claw, and surged into the thick part of me that lay between my legs, a part of me that hadn’t ever been touched by another being other than myself. But the sensations overwhelmed me: her hand wrapping around it, her fingers gently feeling along it as she felt the small ridges along my shaft - her hand drifting around to find my balls...

She dug her fingernails into the tender flesh of my sack.

I let out a yelp at the sudden, sharp pain and utter panic.

I reached down to grab her wrist, to try to pull her hand away, still holding her tight against me.

"No, no, no, no," I said as her fingernails pinched at my skin, tightening as I tried to tug her hand away, but she didn't let go.

It was clear that if I tried to force her hand away, she would do damage. Even if her fingernails were rounded and her hands small, that part of me was delicate enough that she could do serious damage. She tightened her grip a little more, and my panic grew.

"Please stop," I begged.

I let out another gasp as she released her hold, just enough to stop hurting me, but not letting go.

“What are you doing?” I asked, not needing the answer. I knew what she was doing. It wasn’t subtle when a predator was about to lose it. She was defending herself from me.