Throwing the bag with sundries into the bunker, I jump down. It’s high enough that I feel the impact up to my knees, but it doesn’t hurt in the slightest. The concrete smells a bit damp from the weather we’ve had lately. It’s cold and really fucking dark.
“Whose blood is it, Casper?” I spit her words into the darkness before all the noise in my head sends me insane.
Flicking the switch to no avail, I make a note to check the generator and the bulb. With the torch on my phone, I give the place a good look around—Fleur wouldn’t last two seconds down here. The pitch-black alone would freak her out, and th
e cold would be enough to freeze her to death.
It pisses me off that I haven’t checked the shelter before today, because if anything ever happens to me, this is her only chance of making it. And after what happened in the village…the possibility is greater than ever. The hounds are getting closer, I feel it in my gut.
Finding the generator, I check it over. Everything seems fine, which is a relief and makes things easier. I grab a bulb from the shed and head back, and as I’m about to jump back into the cement pit, the bathroom light comes on.
I find myself standing, glued to the muddy ground, watching what she’s doing. Fleur’s too short and I’m too low down to actually see anything past the curve of her shoulders, but as she pulls the dress over her head, I can picture what she looks like.
Neat, growing tits, a small, rounded belly, and pert arse. Not to mention all the fucking beautiful inches of creamy, milky skin. Skin that my hands constantly itch to touch. Skin that’s almost translucent in its fairness.
Fuck.
I swallow down the urge to go to her. I resist the need to mark her as mine over and over and again until every move she makes, every thought she has is consumed by me. So that she will remember who owns her, and like a good pet, she will do as she is fucking told.
Instead, I continue watching her, my heart picking up its deafening drum. Tugging, she frees her hair, dark layers falling past her shoulders as her hands cup her jaw. Fleur stands in front of the mirror motionless. And for a moment I wonder if she’s crying with the way her fingertips stroke over her cheekbones.
I’m ready to fuck everything off to make sure she’s okay, but then her arm straightens in front of her, her hand splaying on the wall as she sucks two fingers into her mouth and lowers them past my view.
Shit.
Water pools in my mouth as she leans forward, but her head tips back. I can picture what her fingers are doing. The mental image of her hand slipping past her underwear, her fingers parting her pretty pink pussy…
My cock hardens at remembrance of her taste. My blood heats. My thoughts scramble into memories and half-imagined pictures of her small fingers pushing into her tight cunt.
The bulb falls from my hand to the dirt, and without taking my eyes from her, I push my hand past the top of my joggers and into my boxers. I fist my hard-on, squeezing in the hopes that it’ll soften, but if anything, it makes me harder. And the tighter I squeeze, the better it feels. Almost as good as her pussy clamping down on me.
“Fuck…” The groan pushes from my lips as I sweep my thumb over the head of my cock, dragging the precum over my length. It’s nowhere near enough, nothing like her hot, wet cunt.
Pulling my hand out, I free my cock and spit into my palm before stroking it down to the hilt and back up, smoothing over the top with force like when I bottom out inside her.
The erratic rhythm of my heart fills my ears the harder I fuck my fist. Everything muffles and fades except for her and her hoarse cries echoing in my head.
The faster I stroke, the louder her cries become until they’re a constant buzz and my cock is throbbing and pulsing and I’m coming at the sight of her collapsing into the wall. And that sight is enough to make me ache for her all over again.
“Aargh,” I growl with frustration, my pulse still pounding and my veins coiling tightly around my muscles and bones. I clean my hand on my joggers while I get myself together. “What is wrong with you?”
I remind my wayward mind of what I’m meant to be doing—protecting Fleur. Protecting our child. And I can’t do that if all I can think about is fucking her. I can’t do my job if my head is clouded by these constant thoughts of her.
All the pent-up frustration is thwarting my resolve to stay away, and the more energy I expend on pushing through my physical need, the less I focus on getting us out of the shit.
Change the game plan, the voice in my head urges, and I listen. I listen and I go through every argument I’ve already had with myself and that I can still raise.
But it’s completely pointless because I’m more fucked up over our current situation than I was when we were fucking like rabbits. And at least if I get the constant thoughts of her under control, I’ll be able to think about how the fuck I’m going to fix everything.
Then again, Fleur’s a brat through and through. I’ll give her an inch, and she’ll take a mile. And she’ll do it like a brazen thief in broad daylight.
There’s a gust of wind that brings with it a light wash of rain. It starts soft and misty, gradually picking up as I jump back down into the shelter, closing the hatch before I see to the light and then the sundries I brought down earlier. They’re stacked on the shelf in the corner.
The musty air begins to get a bit too thick, and I make note to clear the vent opening above ground. I need to bring down a couple of fresh blankets; the ones down here smell damp.
With the rain heavy, I run back to the house. The TV is still on, and there are some tea lights in mason jars spread around the place.
I’m a bastard for leaving her alone in the dark. Going to the airing closet, I collect a few of the spare blankets and a couple of towels before I go back through the kitchen, picking up a large pack of water bottles on my way out. I’m going to need to make sure she understands that whatever she puts into her body will need to come back out, and she’s constantly running to the bathroom as it is.