4. Sky #2
I lick her slowly at first, learning the shape of her, the places where her breath catches, the pressure that makes her legs shake.
My tongue carries what my body made for her, a mate aphrodisiac that loosens tissue, deepens slick, opens an Omega for a claiming that would otherwise demand too much too soon.
Clinical knowledge has never prepared me for this.
No text, no anatomy archive, no breeding manual captures the living truth of my mate under my mouth, growing softer, wetter, more desperate with each stroke of my tongue.
Her grip on my ear tightens.
The pleasure that tears through me makes my hips jerk against nothing.
My cock throbs, heavy and neglected, but the need to taste her outranks the need to enter.
Her fingers drag along the sensitive inner ridge of my ear, clumsy at first, then more deliberate when my groan gives me away.
She learns fast, even half lost to pleasure.
The wicked intelligence that challenged me now devotes itself to destroying my control one trembling stroke at a time.
“Like that?” she whispers.
I answer by sucking her clit into my mouth.
Her back bows. Her hand clamps on my ear, and the pain-pleasure sends another groan rolling through me. She cries out, and I slide one finger through her slick to her entrance. Her body tightens at the first pressure. I stop there, tongue circling, sucking, soothing until the tightness melts.
“Let me in,” I murmur against her.
Her thighs shake. “Yes.”
One finger enters her slowly. Her pussy grips me, hot and untried, but the aphrodisiac has already made her slick enough to take the stretch without pain.
I keep my mouth on her while I work that finger deeper, then back, then deeper again.
Her body learns the motion in small pulses.
The fear in her scent thins. Need overtakes it.
“You’re so tight,” I say against her. “So wet for me.”
Her breath shudders. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes me worse.”
I press another kiss to her clit. “Good.”
She makes a helpless sound when I add the second finger.
Slow. Careful. My tongue does not stop. Her hands move fully to my ears now, both of them, her fingers stroking, pinching lightly, rubbing the sensitive edges as if she understands that my pleasure matters in this too.
My body turns fever-bright under her touch.
My cock leaks against my stomach. Each stroke of her fingers makes my mouth more desperate, and each pass of my tongue makes her wetter around my hand.
This is not foreplay. That human word is too small.
This is preparation, devotion, mating logic written in flesh and chemistry.
Her body yields to my mouth by degrees. Her inner muscles flutter around my fingers.
Her clit swells under my tongue. The scent of her slick becomes so rich I lose the edges of thought.
She comes with my fingers inside her and my mouth sealed over her clit.
Her cry breaks open above me. Her thighs clamp around my shoulders, and her body clenches around my fingers in tight, wet pulses.
I hold her through it, licking her softer, carrying her down one stroke at a time.
Her hands stay on my ears. Even in the aftermath, her thumbs move in slow, dazed passes that keep pleasure rolling through my body until I am shaking as hard as she is.
When I lift my head, she looks wrecked.
Beautiful.
Mine.
I kiss my way up her stomach, over the trembling muscles there, between her breasts.
Her bra still covers them. An unacceptable situation.
I reach behind her, unclasp it and strip the lace away.
Her breasts fill my hands, heavy and perfect, nipples tight against my palms. She watches my face while I touch her, guarded even now, waiting for some shadow of disappointment.
I lower my mouth to one nipple and suck.
Her head falls back. The guarded look vanishes. She moans, low and stunned, and I know then that every fool before me failed because they brought hunger without reverence. They treated her body like a question they did not care to solve. I will spend my life answering it.
I draw her nipple deeper, tongue circling, teeth grazing with careful pressure. She arches into me, slick scent blooming again almost at once. My fingers slide back between her thighs. She opens before I ask.
“Again?” she whispers, half alarmed.
“Again.”
“I just—”
“I know.”
My fingers enter her, easier now. Her body accepts me with a wet pull that makes my vision flash.
I work her slowly while I feast on her breasts, one and then the other, until her hips roll into my hand and the sheets twist beneath her fingers.
She does not know how to hide pleasure anymore.
The aphrodisiac has stripped that from her.
Or maybe the trust has. Either way, she gives me every sound, every tremor, every broken breath.
The second orgasm takes her more slowly.
It rises in her like heat through stone, deep and inevitable.
I feel it in the grip of her pussy around my fingers, in the way her heels press into the mattress, in the widening of her eyes when she realizes there is no stopping it.
She comes staring at me, mouth open, my name caught in her throat but never fully spoken.
I kiss that silence from her lips.
She tastes herself on me and shudders. Her hands slide to my face, then my ears, and she holds me there while the kiss deepens.
This time there is no shock when my tongue meets hers.
Only surrender. Her slick dampens my hand again, and the scent of her nearly drags me over the edge without being inside her.
I break the kiss and brace above her. “This might hurt for a moment.”
“I know.”
“I will go slowly. If you tell me to stop, I stop.”
“Skylor.” Her fingers stroke the base of my ear, gentler now. “I trust you.”
The words enter me more deeply than my cock ever will. I position myself at her entrance. Her slick coats my head at once, hot and slippery, but her body is still tight. I press forward slowly. Her lips grip the head, resisting, then yielding by a fraction. She inhales sharply. I stop.
Her nails press into my shoulders. “Not pain. Just…”
“Stretch.”
“A lot of stretch.”
She slaps my back. “Don't sound so calm.”
“I am not calm.” My gaze drops between us, and the sight almost ruins me. Her body struggling to take the width. Her slick shining on my skin. My base thickening already, too eager for the knot, I will not force until she is ready.
Her eyes lift to mine. “You’re shaking.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
A laugh should come. It does not. The look in her eyes is too open.
Too brave. I push another inch inside. Her face tightens, and I kiss her at once.
Not to distract. To stay with her. To feed her more of my taste, and the mate aphrodisiac.
It works through her, softening what fear tries to close.
Her thighs loosen around my hips. Her fingers return to my ears, stroking slow circles that I have to endure without thrusting.
“Breathe for me,” I say. “Stop plotting my death.”
“You only die if you stop,” she growls.
There is my Beatrice. I kiss her again and press deeper. The barrier of her virginity gives with a small, tight resistance. Her body tenses around me. My arms lock, and my breath freezes in my chest while she adjusts. Her eyes close. A damp shine gathers on her lashes but does not fall.
“Beatrice.”
“Give me a sec here, big guy.” Her voice is thin but certain. “Just wait.”
So I wait.
It is the hardest thing I have ever done.
Her pussy flutters around my cock. The sensation is exquisite, almost cruel. My instincts batter against my ribs, demanding movement, depth, knot, claim. I hold still and stroke her hair back from her face. She turns into my palm. After a long moment, her hips shift beneath me.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I enter her one slow inch at a time. By the time I am seated fully inside her, my body has lost language.
She surrounds me in wet heat, so tight it makes every breath dangerous.
Her hands grip my ears, not hard, but enough to send lightning sparking through the bond.
Her eyes open, and the aura around her blazes clear gold.
The first stroke is shallow.
Her breath catches.
The second is deeper.
Her thighs part wider.
On the third, the sheath forms.
The change rolls over my cock in a wave of living texture, velvet-soft ridges rising along the length of me, made for her body and no one else’s. Her eyes go wide. Her body clenches hard, and pleasure rips through both of us.
“What is that?” she gasps.
“True mate response.” My voice breaks on the words. “Only for you.”
Her fingers dig into my ears. I groan and thrust before I can stop myself. She cries out, but not in pain. The sheath drags against her inner walls, catching, stroking, fitting with an ancient precision. Her body answers in slick, clenching pulses, and the bond locks another thread between us.
“Again,” she says.
I move slowly at first, because she is still new to me.
Then deeper as her body learns the shape of mine.
The bed takes the rhythm, low and solid beneath us.
Her breasts move with each stroke. Her mouth falls open.
My name finally breaks from her throat, and the sound tears through what remains of my control.
The rut takes me by degrees.