Chapter 5
Yours, the pooka—Ink—had said. Aidan drew a breath, let it go. How’d Ink known? Words he’d wanted, needed, craved hearing: trust in him, belief that he’d make the right choices, faith that this moment and this scene would go well.
He wondered abruptly how they’d gotten here, so far and so fast. From a job and a chase to a collar and a promise of consequences.
But Ink wanted this. That need shone incontrovertible: in dark eyes, in slick-tipped rigid c**k, in rapid breaths. Aidan’s own breaths weren’t exactly steady.
He’d played with various partners, human and faerie and both. He’d spent time in clubs, at parties, arranging certain scenes. He knew what he liked. He knew that he wanted to guide an encounter, direct the night, make everything go right and safe and secure. He kne
