Chapter Seventeen #2
She came with a cry, clenching around me, and a cannon went off in my body, rocketing through me, blacking my vision and denying me anything but the sudden boiling and pressured release that exploded through me.
There was a roaring sound that matched the tired scratch in my throat, my own shout of release.
On and on it went, heat and the throbbing pulse that started at my scalp and toes and grew unbearably dense at my core.
It didn't lessen, but I must've grown accustomed to it because eventually my vision cleared and the roaring subsided to a heavy, snarling purr.
Brigid was on her back beneath me, mouth opened on a pleasured scream.
Her body rolled to meet mine in the slow grind and press, her core still squeezing and milking my knot, keeping it hard, keeping us both riding that rough edge of ecstasy without end.
She pulled my hair in her fists, squeaked out a strangled cry, and then drew my mouth down to hers, drowning sense from my mind again.
We were in the rut's grip now.
"Torion!"
My tongue swept through silky, swollen petals of flesh, and the nectar I found was a feast on my palate, sweet and rich and salty.
I dug deeper, purring in approval as she nestled her hips into my face to offer more.
She was so small now. No, it was the other way around.
My dragon was swelling up inside of me, nearly bursting out through the taut stretch of my skin and the hard case of my rising scales.
Her soft little claws dug through my hair, and she cursed, called my name again. My name.
"Torion." A sweet little moan.
My omega. My woman. My…Brigid.
"Witch," I hissed, and lapped up a little flow of arousal once more as she strangled a cry and bucked against my mouth.
Mate. Yes, that was a better word. My mate. My match. The boon I'd claimed for myself and my dragon.
Her legs were trembling over my shoulders, my curls caught in her grip like reins as she arched toward her own release. Greedy little thing. I chuckled at the thought, and she shuddered and whined. Her crown of auburn flames had gone crooked after a day, and now the fire was spread over the sheets.
You should brush it, braid it. You have to take care of her, some sanity whispered to me.
"After," I mumbled, but the word was buried with my tongue inside of her, just another low sound to echo for her pleasure.
Her toes curled against my wing roots, and I groaned.
She was close now. I could plunge inside her once more, knot her and fill her and breed her like she'd told me I must. I grinned, and some man's reason returned at the recollection of Brigid at my father's desk, sorting my supremacy as alpha out with lists and plans.
She deserved this softness, this moment for herself.
And I deserved the taste of her on my tongue before I took her again.
But the taste of her was better than whisky, and stronger too. Her scent fogged my head and filled it only with hunger and lust. And the feel of her, wet and glossy, sweeter than water and more refreshing, cool and hot at the same time… I wanted it coating every inch of me.
"Oh, Torion, I—Ahh!"
I purred as she shattered, my mouth open wide and tongue stroking inside of her, her little legs quaking and spreading wider in an invitation my knot was eager to accept.
And her pulse, it pounded against my cheek.
I could hear the blood rushing inside of her, the very life of her, the way the pace of her heart matched mine precisely.
The life I'd claimed, the one that belonged tied to mine.
I rubbed my face against her thigh, mouthing my way to where it thrummed, calling to me.
I wanted to know everything about my witch, every flavor, every texture. She belonged to me, with me. My mate.
Her leg stretched long as I set my mouth over the pulse at the crease of her hip, sucking and kissing and nibbling till the blood was so close to the surface I could taste the way it changed her, made her sharper, a bitter salt to balance the sweet.
I wanted—no, needed to taste it, to quench the dragon fire in my throat before it burned us both.
The feel of her thigh in my mouth was soft, so tender, so fragile.
"Mmm, Torion?"
Mine.
I bit without thinking, groaning and shuddering with the rightness of her in my jaws, the little cry and sigh of her voice, her fingers soothing down the back of my neck.
For a moment, all the man's doubts faded away.
It did not matter why my witch had come to me, nor why she stayed.
She was here because she was mine and it was as it had to be. Mate.
Brigid was mine. The flavor of her, sharp and tart and as sweet as heather honey, was too perfect to not belong to me.
The low ache in my wings that faded said as much.
The hard pulse of my knot growing full again was further proof.
The way she softened and hummed, as if some irritation had been stolen away and she was at ease again, was right.
I lapped at the wound, a careful one, not too deep. Just enough, a heavy voice in my mind reassured.
I rose up, and the little red beads of my work—just next to her pretty, swollen pink sex—filled me with a satisfaction that was deeper than sexual. This woman belonged in my marrow, and I in hers.
"Torion," Brigid called, one trembling hand reaching for me.
The blood I'd drawn out slicked between our hips as I made my home in her once more.