The Last of His Kind(4)

By: Doris O Connor

When the dart had struck, he'd dived, his movements slower and slower, as his metabolism changed the sedation to poison, forcing him into the human form. How he'd managed to find himself on her stretch of shore, he would never know. That invisible connection he'd felt to her ever since that fateful day all those years ago had to be to blame. Even now her body called to him like the old siren songs of old. His cock hardened, and his blood heated. His species healed through the exchange of sexual energy, and it had been way too long since his body had sought release in soft female flesh. He inhaled her sweet essence, mixed in with the faint scent of lavender soap she used on her skin, and he willed his erection to subside. She wouldn’t appreciate having her eyes poked out when she woke up. Her chest rose and fell, drawing his attention to the slight swell of her bosom. She'd lost weight since she'd last been at the Loch, making her pixie features seem even more delicate, but he'd seen enough of her body over the last few days to know that she had curves in all the right places. Without conscious thought his hand strayed to the silky strands of her hair, and a fresh wave of lavender tickled his senses. Her body responded to his touch, even in her sleep, and he groaned at the way her nipples pebbled against the t-shirt, the dusky rose of her areolas clearly visible through the sheer fabric. His cock surged upwards, and his mouth went dry. She, too, had shifted, her slightly open mouth inches away from the barely covered head of his prick. He released his hold on her and balled his hands into fists. It was all too easy to imagine her lips wrapped around his cock while he shot his cum down her throat.

Fuck it all to hell and back. She was far too fragile for his needs, and he would be damned if he gave into his baser instincts. He wasn't a monster.

She moaned in her sleep, stretched, opened her eyes, and froze. Despite the pain in his balls that matched the ache in his hip, he had to smile as heat flooded her cheeks, and she scrambled off him as though she had been burned. She yanked the glasses off her nose, making his smile deepen, and then seemingly thinking better of it, put them back on her cute, little, freckled nose. It was an achingly familiar move that made his gut churn uncomfortably. Clearly he'd been watching her far too closely for that simple move to speak volumes. He ground his teeth again and swore out loud in Celtic. Her eyes widened, and she scooted backwards on her bottom. She scrambled to her feet and knocked the light shade of the old fashioned little lamp on the coffee table.

"Ouch, damn it. Sorry, let me just switch the light on. I can't see a thing, and I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but you were so ill, and I didn't know what to do, and—" The stream of words stopped abruptly when he struggled to sit up. Light flooded the tiny sitting room, and he shook his head, temporarily blinded as his sensitive eyes struggled to adjust to the brightness.

"What is your name?" He remembered to use her language just in time, the words sounding strange to his ears. She flinched at the hard tones, and he tried again. "I'm Doric."

"Penelope, Penelope Jefferson, nice to meet you." She rolled her eyes and bit her lip, flushing bright scarlet. His sensitive hearing just about picked up the muttered way she called herself an idiot. Did she even realize she was talking to herself? He'd caught her do it often, the words carrying down to his depths, drawing him ever nearer to her.

"Pe-ne-lo-pe." He rolled the syllables around his tongue, and she clasped her arms around herself. "It suits you, Penelope. I thank you for your hospitality, but I must leave."

A fresh wave of heat suffused her cheeks and spread down her exposed throat, making him wonder how far that blush went. His cock hardened further, and he struggled to his feet, clutching the strange fabric to himself to hide his body's reaction. He couldn't hide his wince of pain however, as his hip locked, the remaining poison shooting arrows of acid along his veins. Sweat broke out across his forehead, and he crunched his teeth to stop himself from showing weakness in front of a human, delectable female or not. He had to get away, back to the waters of the Loch, away from temptation.


Oh, shit. He didn't look too good. Well, that was a lie. He looked good enough to eat. At least six foot six of solid muscle, classic cheekbones, strong jaw, expressive golden eyes under strong slashes of eyebrows, and the most kissable full lips, framed by a mane of sandy colored hair. The man of her dreams, quite literally. But his lightly tanned skin was tinged with grey, and deep grooves of pain ran from his straight nose down to his mouth, and even though he'd masked it well, she'd noticed his wince of pain. His hip line was swollen and purple, and he'd barely recovered from his fever. Not to mention the small matter of why he'd washed up on her side of the Loch, stark naked.