Page 46 of Gemini Hunted (Dark Witch Academy #5)

“Hells’ bells,” he scrapes out. “You’re a tease. I fucking knew it.”

“Well, naturally.” I saunter up behind Zara and slip into place between the demon’s spread knees to purr in her ear. “Zara, darling, you’re wearing far too many clothes. Take everything off, do. Quickly. Or I’ll do it for you… my way.”

I punctuate my polite request by sliding the pocketknife from my trousers and thumbing it open with a snick!

My girl’s teal head snaps up from the demon’s neck. Her startled face turns toward me. “Oh, no you don’t, Goblin King. No knives! I’m down to my last pair of panties. No knives till we get back to the domus .”

I admire the wicked edge of my blade. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Zara’s half-laughing and sultry with arousal, eyes glowing periwinkle like pinwheels, mouth swollen and breathless with kisses.

I can’t resist the urge to swoop down and claim one for myself.

Not one of my swift snakebites that leaves her gasping, but a deep claiming kiss that plunders her hot silky depths to make her moan.

She even tastes like peaches, her entire fertile body priming her for mating, overlaid with a burnt taffy taste that’s new.

“Hmmm,” I breathe into her mouth. “Is that the taste of sex demon?”

“Mmm-hmm.” The minx’s tongue dances around mine. “You like?”

“Oh, I like.” Finally, I turn from my girl’s succulent mouth to find his.

This demon I’ve more or less added to her harem.

I kiss him before he can “rizz me up,” to use his line, with all that infernal incubus charisma. I snake out a hand to circle his beefy throat, tighten my grip to choke him, and kiss him when he opens his mouth to protest.

His sleek blue beard is smooth as silk. His full lips are soft and sweet as Zara’s.

He tastes like her too, like peaches drizzled with taffy.

But the raw hunger that surges from his kiss is all potent male.

His tongue meets mine in a slick lick that sends fire streaking through every synapse I possess.

I hiss in approval, tighten my grip on his throat, and deepen the kiss.

Just so he’ll know who’s directing this little production.

His hard hands, callused as a construction worker’s, push inside my open shirt and slide roughly over my ribs.

Pressed against my front, Zara wiggles desperately to unbutton her blouse and slip out of it before I can slice it open with the knife I’m still holding, quite deliberately, where she can see the blade.

Of course, the threat of my knife would be far more effective if she didn’t already know, to the marrow of her bones, that I’m psychotically in love with her. As a result, Zara hasn’t been properly terrified of despicable me—her horrible alpha—in quite some time.

The price we pay for love.

Trapped between the three of us, buffeted by our writhing bodies, the Horn of Ceres pulses like a beating heart. It’s a pulse I can feel with every one of my warlock senses, a heartbeat I can hear thudding through my skin. Under my trousers, my engorged cock weeps with need.

All the while Mordred, the naughty boy, sucks on my tongue like it’s my dick. Still throttling his throat, I hum to encourage him and shift my knife to tease the waistband of Zara’s skirt.

“Don’t you dare. I mean it, you snake!” Indignant but still laughing, Zara pushes Mordred flat on his back (which breaks our kiss), nudges my menacing knife aside, and gives us all a moment to adjust.

With my strangling grip finally dislodged from his throat, Mordred seizes his moment to suck in a shaky breath.

Zara seizes her moment to reach under her skirt and slip demurely out of her panties.

I seize mine by unclasping her bra from behind with a casual flick.

Even though I really do want to use my knife.

That lacy scrap of lime-green lingerie flutters to the floor.

Mordred sprawls on his back, a moveable feast of bulging pecs and deltoids and abdominal six-pack sheened with sweat, wild blue hair flung over the stone beneath him. When his gaze devours our queen’s exposed breasts, his wicked eyes turn savage with hunger.

Still wearing her saucy schoolgirl skirt and stockings, Zara kneels between his legs and slides her hands up his thighs.

The demon blinks rapidly and looks like he’s struggling to find his words. “Uh… before you go there… I should prolly tell you…”

“No more talking.” I slip out of my own shirt, let it fall where it will, and press myself against the graceful line of my darling girl’s spine. My arms slither around her tiny waist and my hands close around the lush fullness of her breasts.

Zara moans in my arms, her head falling back against my shoulder.

Her tits fill my palms and spill over my cupped fingers in the most delectable way, a glorious abundance of soft curves and satiny skin.

Her pierced nipples, ripe as cherries, are particularly sensitive during her superheats.

Especially when I twist her little silver rings the way I know she adores.

“Oh, fuck me, that’s hot,” the demon rasps. “Like skibbidi hot.”

“So pleased you approve. Shall I show you what she truly likes?” I grin down at him and let my fangs show, in a way that’s new for me. I’ve spent my entire life thinking my snakelike incisors are freakish. A carnival sideshow of the grotesque. At the very least, an unfortunate flaw to be hidden.

But for some reason, my fangs make Zara wet and all our warlocks hard.

“Yeah. That’s what I want.” The demon arches his spine and writhes in the most delicious abandon. Especially when Zara’s hands reach the juncture of his thighs. “But, hells, baby queen—”

“Whoa.” This comes from Zara, who’s just cupped a hand over the demon’s considerable bulge. “Um, Mordred…”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he groans from the heart. “Fuuuuck…”

When she bends intently over him and starts simultaneously groping and kneading, like she’s absorbing the contours of his anatomy and can’t believe what she’s finding, his head falls back and his eyes fall shut.

Well, I’ve had more than enough of this.

With a huff of impatience, I stop tormenting my girl’s exquisitely sensitive nipples (temporarily), grip the demon’s trousers in my ruthless hands, and drag them down his hips.

In the near darkness, his bush blazes blue, a thick forest of indigo (not exactly a shocker, after Zephyr’s green pubes).

What is a shocker, absolutely, is the thick curving dick that rises from his blue lagoon like a long-necked brontosaurus rising from the swamp. Or more precisely, the second dick immediately beneath, nearly as large as the first, rearing taut and proud above his swollen ball sack.

“Dear fuck,” I say blankly, stripped of all my wiles. “You’re diphallic.”

Because you don’t live for twenty-three years as a gay boy, darling—at least, I didn’t—without harboring a few secret fantasies about someday stumbling across a double-header. Or knowing what to call the phenomenon, if you should ever be so lucky.

“Cheese on toast,” Zara breathes. My little darling sounds positively awestruck. “Mordred. Either I’m suddenly seeing double or… you literally have two dicks.”

“Been trying to tell you, no cop,” Mordred says meekly. “It’s a kraken thing. Bottom one hides in a coital slit when I don’t need him. But, uh, when I’m horny…”

“They both come out to play,” I finish for him.

In unison, Zara and I lean forward in shared fascination. I rest my chin on her silky bare shoulder, cradle her luscious tits in my palms, and simply enjoy the view.

One kraken.

Two dicks.

Both fully erect and rising from that thicket of wiry blue curls, both nearly too girthy to wrap my hand around. Copper skin flushed violet with need, thick shafts threaded with swollen veins I ache to trace with my tongue. Precum beading both velvety crowns.

I leave it to Zara to voice the question we’re both burning to ask.

She sucks in a breath and gamely takes the plunge. “Do they both work, like, independently?”

“This ain’t a show-and-tell.” The demon winks and grins at both of us in a way that makes his dimples pop. “One way to find out, bae.”

Belatedly, with a jolt of comprehension, I recognize this creature’s constant banter for precisely what it is.

A defense mechanism.

He’s horribly afraid we’re going to reject him—or, at the very least, fetishize him like a sex toy—for his apparent deformity . Which is probably the reaction he’s been confronting his whole life.

Secretly, I experience another unexpected twinge of… sympathy… perhaps even compassion… for this freakish half-shifter that I find deeply unsettling.

Fortunately, my darling Zara knows just what to do. She takes this bombshell (or should I say sex bomb? I snicker) of revelation fully in stride.

Without missing a beat, she says easily, “Okay, Aquaman. You have mating fever, I’m in heat, and V’s raging hard-on is poking me in the butt. Fair to say we’re up for the challenge.”

“Yeet.” The demon leers at both of us. “Imma try not to disappoint, for real.”

But I’m watching him too closely to be deceived by his juvenile Gen Alpha swagger.

Now that I’m alert to this creature’s little deceptions, I can read like newsprint, from the way his jaw unknots and the lines of strain ease around his eyes, his profound relief that we’re neither freaked out nor repulsed.

In fact, we’re the opposite.

Although, truly, he’s holding his breath to see if that changes.

Nimbly Zara scrambles to straddle the demon’s hips. Then she reaches beneath her, with both hands, for his dicks.