Kagome rubbed her fingers in a frenzy, her wrist beginning to ache from the strain of repetitive motion, her supple flesh beginning to sear even through the ample glaze that filmed it. Her chest heaved, flushed and pebbled, sweat threading snake-like down the quaking valley of her breasts. As her vision dimmed around the edges, as the muscles in her thighs and stomach drew taut with anticipation, the pang in her heart was black and leaden. The taste in her mouth was coppery—

Red.

Perfectly golden, perfectly sane, Sesshoumaru’s eyes bore into hers. “Not yet.”

Kagome clenched her jaw, her fingers slipping. Kneeling on the floor beneath her, he stroked himself almost casually, as if the sight of her on the verge of coming was just an everyday occurrence to him. Although, Kagome reflected sourly, it was fast approaching that.

“You aren’t even close,” she grit out.

“Your hand covers too much of you.” Sesshoumaru’s reflective gaze seemed to flicker. “Turn over.”

Kagome glared, trembling with repressed lust and anger. “Are you insane?”

“You’re not in heat,” he stated, as if this was supposed to reassure her. “Let me see you from behind.”

Heavily, she breathed, frustrated in every sense. With dread, she was forced to acknowledge her mounting suspicions, to admit to herself that it was becoming harder to satisfy him. The frequency was one thing, but the extent of his demands was another. If she dared to look back, which increasingly she found herself doing, willingly or otherwise, she could see a pattern of behavior that had escalated wildly. She could see the chips of herself following it like breadcrumbs, growing larger into chunks of flesh, into pieces that more and more resembled her in full.

Conscious of her own diminishing, bitterly aware of her self-effacement, she turned over onto her knees and cast him a withering glance. “You have two minutes.”

Beneath her, the table creaked as she withdrew one supporting hand and placed it between her thighs again. A shiver ran through her when she wedged them apart, the charged, youki-laden atmosphere around her a dense and tangible thing. She couldn’t deny the loathsome thrill that gripped her at assuming this position. She couldn’t ignore how much wetter she was in this state of abhorrent exposure, of obscene presentation. Not only the entrance to her womb, but the opening of her rear faintly quivered, as though in dark expectation.

“Is that also something you enjoy,” Sesshoumaru observed, low and musing.

Kagome ignored the pointed lack of question in his tone, a muscle working in the set line of her jaw. Despite his cool appraisal, his aura had taken on a predictive, jagged edge, and she was gratified by this—almost as gratified as she was at the flare of raw pleasure that assailed her when she brushed her finger just right along the underside of her clit. A moan hissed out of her, her hips rocking forward of their own accord, chasing after the contact she withheld with a spasm of her wrist, with a sudden cupping and flattening of her fingers.

Until then, her pleasure had been tightly controlled, parsed out in measured fractions. She had been able to look at him, to build herself up steadily and evenly. To give herself over at last in grudging acquiescence to the base demands of her body, of him. But like this…bent over and blind to the action, her thoughts were running away unchecked—her senses, also. Too much, she felt in a panic. In a throb.

Too fast.

Stunned and reeling, she lost track of the time. Feverishly, she shuddered, stuck in a crisis of spiritual confusion. Where was she? Who was she? What was she doing here, like this?

“Kagome,” a voice rumbled at her, as if from far away, “rein in your power.”

The sound of her name drew her back, drew her in. His youki pressed against her like a smothering fog, and her reiki retreated as she struggled to regain her bearings. The skim of his claws along her calf made her twitch only reflexively. The flicker of his tongue against the arch of her foot was nothing more than a passing sensation. She noted it vaguely, yet when he took her toe into the fiery sharpness of his mouth, she whimpered unbidden. When his fang scraped the nail, when he rasped her at its tender bed, her hand moved against herself of its own volition.

Inuyasha © Rumiko Takahashi

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