Page 143 of Nine-Tenths

Instead of holding up, he surges to his feet, wings snapping open with a bullwhip crack. In a second I’m on my back on the bed. Claws prick along the soft flesh of my inner arms, where he's got them pinned above my head.

"Dav, please," I try again, chest hitching. He snuffles behind my ear, god, are his teeth pointed? Are they right above my jugular? "What's wrong?"

"Mine Own," he hisses. Goosebumps ripple across my flesh. He burns like a star, and where his cheekbone drags across my throat it's slick with scales. "Mine."

"Yes," I choke desperately. "I'm yours, okay, but—"

"Stay sssssstill," he hisses, and hunches his shoulders, visibly shudders as he pulls away from my soft underbelly.

What the fuck is happening,I think frantically,He's usually so together, what—

"You stink," he growls, hands flexing gently, ankles tangling with mine, pushing outward so he can settle into the cradle of my hips.

Usually I like it when he manhandles me a bit. It's sexy, the way he can move me so effortlessly.Wouldbe sexy if we were playing, if we'd negotiated any of this in advance. But we hadn't.

I'm not scared of Dav, I can't be. I won't let him make me.

"I'll take a shower," I say.

I can't see his expression now. His hair has flopped down in front of his face, his features screwed small, as if he's concentrating with all his might. I don't know what he's thinking. Christ, I don'tknowwhat he's thinking.

"Let me up, love," I say, a tiny, breathy plea. "Come on, I can shower."

"No!" he snarls again, dropping the whole weight of his body on top of mine, punching the breath out of my lungs in surprise.

"Ssssstay ssssstill." His body rolls against mine, once, a high whining keen escaping. "Please. Help me, Mine Own. Stay still."

"I'm staying still," I say. "Okay? I'm here. I'm yours. I'm not going anywhere."

He's fighting something. It’s in the way his muscles flex and roll, the way he shudders, letting his mouth get close to my face, my hair, but never touch, never kiss.

"Please," he sobs, miserable. "Don't fight me."

"I'm not," I protest gently, and I take as deep a breath as his weight on my ribcage allows, then force my muscles to let go. Legs limp, hands soft, uncurled from their fists, head back, chin raised.

Exposed.

Vulnerable.

He exhales, relief in the noise. He presses his mouth against my leaping pulse, tastes the flop-sweat gathered on my collarbones.

I focus on my breathing. Slow in, slow out.

Gentle.

Calm.

Iamscared.

Scared asfuck.

Dav’s nose smushes against my cheek, breathing in the air straight from my lungs, chin resting on mine as if he's desperately weary, can’t even hold his head up. Or like he can't let himself have any more than this awkward press of face-to-face.

"That whoreson," Dav says, smearing the words against my mouth. "Thatthief."

"Who?"

"Hetouchedyou."