Chapter 34 Milked By The Witch—I

• The deeper he went, the wetter the earth got, soaking through his boots and chilling his ankles. Fog coiled low like a living thing, curling around trees with bark slick as oil. And that scent—thick, humid, maddening—wasn’t rot or moss. It was sweet. Like sweat and cunt. He shouldn’t have followed it.
• But his cock had been hard since dusk.
• The hunter’s breath steamed in the cold air, but sweat glued his shirt to his back. He gritted his teeth and pushed forward, ignoring the unnatural throb in his groin. That ache had started the night the curse hit him—three moons ago, when he stumbled out of a warlock’s lair half-dead and hard. No spellbreaker could fix it. Every priest turned him away. No rest. No release. Just pressure, burning him from the inside out.