Before She Wakes: Forbidden Fairy Tales Read Online Free

brace myself for an angry reaction. But he says, “Your first trial is to find out what he’s thinking. Come back when you have the answer.”
    He releases my chin. His hand moves to my ass, fingers brushing just underneath in a way that makes me want to break the rules and push into them, and he gives me a shove.
    This is hands-down the hottest fantasy I’ve ever had, and the last thing I want to do is go talk to a damn statue. I’m increasingly intrigued by my sponsor, and by my body’s responses to his rough treatment. What would happen if I defied him? Could I anger him into taking me? I feel a contraction in the flesh between my legs at the thought.
    But my legs keep moving, and I find myself standing before the bowed head. Studying the dark-bronze, literally chiseled flesh. He’s sat in this position at least a hundred years—he’s probably not trying to decide on his favorite flavor of ice cream. So what’s the test? Am I supposed to come up with a smart-sounding bullshit answer on my own—which, having written a thousand papers in my eight years of college, I am eminently qualified to do—or am I supposed to figure out a way to interact with him?
    I circle around the pedestal, and on my second pass I drag my fingertips over the exposed ribs of his back. Down the well-muscled biceps. He’s no exaggerated, romance-style figure. He’s a realistically well-formed man.
    Stepping closer, I run the palms of my hands over his back. “You don’t even have a name, do you?” I murmur.
    Without any conscious impulse, my hands knead at his shoulders, then down his arms and back, the hard bronze not giving in the slightest. Well, no wonder he’s epically tense and knotted—he’s cursed by an artist to spend his whole life in this hunched position.
    I bend close and whisper near his ear. “I’d be thinking about revenge.”
    What is that?
    My hands stop in their work. Did he speak? It had been more like a whisper across my thoughts.
    I bend again to his ear. “Revenge is what you do to someone who’s wronged you.”
    For what purpose?
    My hands resume their kneading. “Satisfaction, I suppose.”
    The response to this is just a sound. A grating noise. I step back, wondering, is his torso a little straighter?
    I continue the massage, moving closer now, so my breasts brush at his back, metal clamps scraping at his metal torso. When he straightens again I feel it, his back pressing into me.
    You haven’t answered my first question.
    I frown, confused, but I bend forward and press my lips to his neck.
    “What do you mean?” I murmur.
    The metal heats up under my hands, slick from the oil and sweat in my skin, but he doesn’t reply.
    I move around slowly to his front, keeping my body close, brushing my skin against his. He has straightened enough that his hands have left his chin and his arms now dangle beside him. There is room for me on his lap.
    I remember the rules I’ve been given and glance back at Master. His lips have parted, and his cock is hard and pointing my direction. He catches my glance, and he reaches up and closes his fist over it.
    A soft groan in my throat, I return my attention to the Thinker. Raising one leg I straddle his lap, sliding in close. He, too, is hard, eternally. But I’m pretty sure he has never been this erect.
    I raise my hands to his face and wonder if he sees me. There’s no movement there that I can see. No animation of his features. Moving close, I touch my lips to his. Feeling only cold metal, I push my tongue against him, licking and teasing. No response.
    Sitting up, I remove one of the nipple clamps, letting it drop on the chain, so it dangles from the other breast. I rise on the balls of my feet, and I press my nipple against his mouth, moving in slow circles until my hips begin to buck in the air at his abdomen.
    My nipple slips into his mouth. It’s not soft, or wet. It’s hard and rough, like the clamp. I continue the circular motion, stimulating the pebbled