Squeezing, he could only imagine what her lips would feel like gliding up and down his length, her sharp canines scraping along his sensitive skin with just the right amount of pain. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to fall deeper into the image of her before him.

Her dark curls would be loose, wild and thick about her shoulders, and he’d sink his hands into it, knotting his fingers in the spirals and holding tight so there would be no chance of her pulling away.

Then, just as those inhuman, silver eyes met his, he’d slam forward, watching himself disappear down her throat until her nose pressed against his abdomen.

Throat constricting as she gagged around his shaft, tears streaming down her cheeks, and nails scratching at him as she silently begged for air, she’d look fucking beautiful.

Ever since his first time, he’d never gone this long without sinking inside a woman, and it’d surprised him how much he didn’t miss it. He didn’t need or desire it the way most men he met seemed to. He’d only ever done it to help slake the pull of his demon and smooth out his perfected, rakish image.

But the last few days had been different. Harder. He still didn’t need sex per se. He just needed her. And with each day that passed without her, it grew worse. His body fucking craved and begged for her, driving him near madness.

It was like a physical ache he couldn’t shake no matter what he occupied himself with. Training, drinks, cards, nothing. Absolutely nothing had worked to satisfy the raging hunger he had for her.

Maybe if he hadn’t come so gods damn close to having her, he’d feel more in control. But he had. He’d grazed his fingers along her body, pressed his lips to her warm skin, and felt the addiction crawl through him like a street drug.

“Fuck,” he spit, ramming up into his fist harder, listening to the water slosh and spill around him, wishing it was her moaning and begging instead.

Releasing himself suddenly, he gasped, gripping the edge of the tub until his knuckles turned white. He refused to keep fucking himself each night like some uncontrollable adolescent. It wasn’t helping. If anything, it was only making it worse.

He took a breath, holding it in and counting, before letting it trickle out. Maybe if he satisfied his fantasy, fed the craving in the only way he could, then maybe, just maybe, he’d make it until she returned.

He wasn’t unfaithful if he imagined and wished for his bride the entire time, right?

Relaxing one of his hands, he leaned over, pulling the string attached to the bell on the wall. His servant, an older, white-haired man, rushed in seconds later, arms saddled with clean clothes to assist him with drying and dressing.

Eithan shook his head, the motion sending a pang through his still-healing nose. Gods damn, Gibson. “I will not be needing those just yet, Cal. I find myself desiring a warm body to keep me company, and I’m not feeling very patient.”