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He’d come back in his own white robe and he’d sit on the bed next to her. In order to calm her—well, to calm them both—he’d start by stroking her face and her neck and her hair. And when she tilted her head back to give him access, he’d put his lips to hers. At this point his hands would work down the robe’s two halves until he got to the sash. He would loosen that slowly, so slowly she wouldn’t be shy about the fact that he was about to see her breasts and her stomach and her . . . everything.

He went everywhere with his mouth.

That was what happened in the fantasy. Everywhere. His lips, his tongue . . . every inch of her got attention.

The images were so off the chain that Phury’s hand had to find the ache between his own thighs. He meant to just rearrange himself in his pants, but once he made contact it wasn’t about relocation . . . it was the only thing that had felt even remotely good in so long.

Before he knew what he was doing, he put the blunt between his lips, unzipped, and let himself wrap a palm around his cock.

The rules of his self-imposed celibacy had held that doing this kind of pump action was a no-no. After all, it seemed pointless to deny himself sex and yet open the door to masturbation. And the only time in his life he’d worked himself out had been during Bella’s needing and that was about biological necessity, not enjoyment—he’d had to either relieve himself or go insane, and those orgasms had been as hollow as the empty bathroom he’d had them in.

This didn’t feel hollow.

He pictured himself going where he wanted to be most . . . between Cormia’s legs with his head . . . and his body went crazy, his skin heating until you could have put a pot on his abs and boiled water. And shit got volcanic as he imagined his tongue finding its way through her core to the sweet, welling center of her.

Oh, God . . . he was stroking himself. There was no denying it. And he wasn’t going to stop.

Phury took the blunt from his lips, flicked it into an ashtray, and moaned, his head falling back as he parted his legs. He did not want to think of what he shouldn’t do. He just needed one slice of ease and happiness, one small piece of joy . . . just this moment when he was warm. He’d watched his brothers find love and settle down in strong matings, and he’d wished them well from the sidelines—while knowing all along that would not be his future. And that had been okay for a long time. Now, though, it didn’t feel okay anymore.

He . . . wanted things. For himself.

Anxiety started to bleed into his pleasure, like an ink stain on pale cloth.

He stopped the spoil by focusing on Cormia in his head. He saw himself treating her with both gentleness and power, handling her body. . . .

“Oh, yeah . . .” he groaned into the still air of his bedroom.

This moment he would steal for himself, and he told his guilty conscience he deserved it for all the hard work he’d done.

He was alone. No one would ever know.

Cormia carefully balanced the glass of milk and the plate of stacked bread and meats while she lifted a hand to knock on the Primale’s door. She wished she’d put the “sandwich” together better. Fritz had shown her what to do, and undoubtedly his would have looked less disheveled, but she’d wanted to move quickly, and she’d wanted to make it herself.

Just before her knuckles made contact with the wood, she heard a moan, as if someone were hurt. And then another.

Concerned for the Primale’s well-being, she went for the knob and pushed her way into his room—

Cormia dropped the sandwich plate. As the thing bounced on the floor, she stared across at the bed while the door shut by itself.

Phury was leaning back against the pillows, his spectacular, multicolored hair streaming out around his head. His black button-down shirt was pushed up to just below his rib cage, and his pants were undone and shoved down to the tops of his golden thighs. One hand was on his manhood, and his sex was thick and glossy at the broad tip. As he stroked the length hard and strong, his other hand was down below on the potent