Just One Question…

 

 

Before I can form another thought, my mind shuts down against my will, racing in ecstasy while my dick jumps like it’s on a fucking trampoline.

And I’m powerless to stop it.

All of it.

For the first time in a long, long time, I remember what it feels like to have almost no control.

Over my surroundings or myself.

I have to ball my fists tightly as I continue to behold this strange, intriguing human girl, gritting my teeth against the intense, almost dangerous wave of pleasure threatening to ambush me.

What the hell is happening to me…?

All I can focus on is her.

The way she looks.

The way she smells.

The way she probably tastes…

Suddenly, I want nothing more than to pin her down on the floor, shove that oversized gown up her thighs, and fuck the ever-loving shit out of her.

I don’t know why. And I have no particular reason to want to.

But I…do.

I just really, really do.

Fuck! What the hell is this chick doing to me?

I fall into autopilot again, steeling myself against the crude desires taking root in my head.

Scratch that.

In both my heads.

I feign calmness while holding my end of our ongoing conversation—well, argument, as the case is now—enjoying every word she utters more than the previous and literally basking in her aroma.

I’ve never worked so hard to hold my composure in all my eons of existence. I feel so flustered I can hardly believe it. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so out of my element like this.

For crying out loud, you were nicknamed after a shark! I bellow inside, wanting nothing more than to shake myself profusely. Sharks sure as hell don’t get stupefied like this!

I need to gain some more control of myself and of this situation. Like, right now.

“What’s your name?” I ask, realizing how important that detail is.

She frowns. “What’s yours?”

If I wasn’t so focused on trying not to blow my load, I’d have laughed.

This girl is cheeky.

One normally wouldn’t expect that from just looking at her. She seems so innocent; so young and child-like.

We keep going back and forth, comebacks and witty remarks flying from between each other’s lips, exchanging words as though we’re in a competitive, flirtatious dance.

I feel myself losing control again, sensing my deeper perversions taking over, and I can’t stop myself from thinking of all the lewd things I want to do to her.

At some point, I vaguely I hear myself tell her I’m a Reaper, the admission leaving my lips easily.

Too easily.

It feels almost inconsequential.

And with that revelation, I sense her conflicting emotions; fear, confusion, disbelief…arousal.

Her scent blooms again, and I swear to god I have to adjust my posture to keep myself from falling over.

Jesus fucking Christ…

It’s just too fucking good.

I stare at her dead on, my eyes boring into hers mercilessly. I know I seem intimidating when I look at people so intently. I’ve been told so by close friends and my Reaper comrades alike on more than a few occasions. Even my mother has mentioned it at some point.

But I can’t take my eyes off at her.

And I here I thought she was the one gawking before.

I’m probably going to scare her out of her mind if I keep looking at her the way I am.

But, surprisingly, she just stares right back at me, her own eyes wide and unsure, glazed with her increasing arousal.

I practically beam with joy.

Oh, god, yes! That’s what I want to see.

Keep looking at me like that, baby, and I don’t know what I’ll do.

Without thinking, I reach for her, running my hand down the side of her face. Her skin is gorgeous, smooth and warm and soft.

I want to run my hands on other parts of her body that I’m sure are smooth and warm and soft as well, but settle for lightly playing in her hair.

Her mane is impressive; the large, dense mass covering her head in a multitude of tiny, identical curls. Each one is soft and springy, the carefree texture of Earthly cotton, and its naturally dark color complements her large eyes.

God, she really does remind me of a kitten.

Abruptly, I picture myself yanking on it as I fuck her from behind, pounding into her pussy until she sobs with pleasure.

Impulsively, I back her up against the podium in an attempt to get as close to her as possible without touching her further, trying to take in more of her scent.

I know I’m probably making her uncomfortable and definitely violating her personal space, but I can’t seem to bring myself to back away. Sure as fuck don’t want to.

“You have a pretty scent, kitten,” I say, inhaling again. “I like it…I like it a lot.”

God, I want to rip her gown off and lick her pussy dry. I haven’t felt so sexually desperate in…well…ever.

I just can’t understand how a simple mortal’s scent and voice can do this to me.

Another wave of arousal from her tells me that she feels the same way.

And, thus, I reach the limits of my self-control.

Without thinking about it, I do something that neither of us is prepared for.

I…kiss her.

Holy Basilisk of the Reapers…

She tastes…

Divine.

Her lips are so soft, and even though they’re slightly tense—no doubt in shock—their warmth is remarkable, a by-product of the frantic blood rush in her body.

It takes all the restraint and discipline I have in me to keep from biting and sucking on them.

I don’t want to scare the bejesus out of her or have her run off because I can’t keep my shit together. The last thing I want is for her to think I’m some over-sized kid who’s just hit puberty. And so, the gentleman in me that I’m trying so hard to revive ends the brief kiss.

I pull back reluctantly, staring at her again as I wait for a reaction. The analyst in me tries to gauge what she’ll do next but, strangely, I can’t come up with anything. I don’t know if she’ll take off spooked, slit my throat, or kiss me back.

However, she does the one thing I didn’t consider:

Absolutely nothing.

Kitty-Cat just stands there.

Saying nothing.

Breathing heavily.

Watching me.

I study her face, silently asking for her approval of what I very much want to keep doing to her. But her eyes seem unsure, guarded, with elements of wariness poking through her previously relaxed demeanor.

What is she so nervous ab—

I suddenly think of a possible reason for her renewed show of wariness. I’m not even sure what answer I expect. Or want, for that matter.

Still…I have to ask.

“Are you a virgin?”

***

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