Lyon (33 page)

“Damn the watcher!”
he seethed, pumping his cock ruthlessly.

Beneath him, his wings were like lead, pulling him down into the water. How black its satiny breast was, with only one torch lit on the rocky wall. Calling upon his extraordinary strength, Gideon surged upward, his wings raining water. His feet found bottom, for that part of the pool was shallow. His breath was coming short, not from exertion, but from the climax that was about to rock his soul, and he plowed through the water to the fall spilling down and stood beneath it.

White water poured off him, spindrift mixing with rising steam as the flow of falling water beat down upon his wings, upon his naked skin, every pore acutely charged with the palpitating rush of orgasmic fire ripping through his loins. One last spiraling tug on his pulsating shaft, and he watched the seed leave his body in long, shuddering spurts, as the water creamed over him, spraying out from his unfurled wings in crystalline droplets.

Gideon cried out as the climax took him, the bestial howl echoing back in his ears amplified by the acoustics in the cave. When had his wings, those traitorous wings, unfurled? He flapped them now, and rose hovering over the pool, beating the water from the silver-white feathers. It rolled off them with the same ease it would have done rolling off a duck's back.

Soaring higher, he wended his way to the edge of the pool and touched down on the smooth, cold marble. He groaned again. The melancholy sound drifted over the water and became part of the roar of the little waterfall across the way. How he detested the ritual. How he abhorred that he'd once again squandered his seed thus. His cock was flaccid now, but not sated. It would never be sated. That was part of the curse. He had climaxed, but there was no satisfaction in it. Tomorrow, the wind would ruffle his feathers and he would grow hard again, with no soft hand to ease his torment, no warm, sweet, welcoming womb to receive his seed. No hand but his own would service him, and no womb save the night or the pool of dark water would have him, should he prowl the archipelago until dawn swallowed the darkness again…and again.

He snatched the torch from its bracket and thrust it into the water, his nostrils flared at the hissing, spitting steam and noise it made, casting the pool in darkness. Then furling his wings, he stomped back to his sleeping chamber. It had been days since he'd closed his eyes, and he was exhausted.

There was no bed. He could not lie in one long enough to sleep. On his back, pressure upon his wings would bring arousal. Were he to sleep upon his belly, the weight of the wings would crush and smother him. He stepped into the sleeping alcove, a hollowed-out niche in the cave wall that fitted him utterly. There, he would sleep through the rest of the day and night standing, hopefully through the storm, until the dawn came stealing, throwing beams of morning at his feet through the narrow apertures high in the eaves, no wider than arrow slits. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his broad, muscled chest. Yes, there he would remain until the dawn touched his wings with silent sound that only he could hear, setting off the cruel vibrations, making him hard again.