Silver in the Dark #6
I felt the sudden, heavy pulse of his climax shooting deep inside me.
It was a staggering volume, a thick, boiling heat that flooded my deepest walls, a branding iron of pure vampire seed.
He pumped wave after wave of it into my ruined hole, filling me up, overwriting every single thing Mateo and Rowan had done to me, claiming me completely from the inside out.
The sensation of being bred so deeply, of feeling his thick, hot come pooling in my gut, was the final trigger. I shattered.
I threw my head back, a raw, broken scream tearing out of my throat.
My body bowed violently against the chains, and I came hard, shooting thick, heavy ropes of my own climax against the freezing stone wall.
I sobbed through the release, my legs trembling so violently I would have collapsed if the iron cuffs weren't holding me up.
Draco held himself deep inside me through the aftershocks, his massive chest heaving against my back, his teeth still lightly grazing the bite mark on my neck. He continued to pump his seed into me, milking every last drop of his climax into my tight, clutching walls.
When the spasms finally began to subside, he didn't pull out.
He stayed buried to the hilt, his hands moving from my hips to wrap around my waist, holding me flush against him.
We stayed like that for a long time, the only sounds in the dungeon our ragged breathing and the heavy clink of the chains.
“Mine,” Draco whispered against my ear, his voice thick with a dark, possessive satisfaction. “Completely, perfectly mine.”
I hung from the cuffs, entirely unmade, my face covered in his spit, my body completely filled with his seed, and I knew, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that he was right.
The heavy, ragged sound of our breathing filled the dungeon, slowly replacing the frantic echoes of our climax.
Draco stayed buried inside me for a long time, his arms wrapped securely around my waist, his forehead resting against my shoulder.
The feral, ancient monster that had just claimed me was slowly receding, making way for the terrifyingly quiet, controlled man I knew.
When he finally pulled back, it was with a slow, agonizing care. His cock slid free with a wet, hollow sound, and my legs immediately gave out.
I would have hit the stone floor, but Draco caught me. He supported my entire weight with one arm, his other hand moving up to the iron cuffs. The heavy locks clicked, one after the other, and my arms fell uselessly to my sides, the joints aching from the strain.
Draco turned me around in his arms. I sagged against his broad, hairy chest, completely drained, my face resting against his collarbone. He didn't say a word. He just held me, his hand coming up to stroke the back of my head, a slow, grounding rhythm.
“The wound,” Draco murmured, his voice a soft rumble against my ear.
He pulled back just enough to look at my side. He touched the skin near my kidney where the silver dagger had caught me earlier in the Crimson Room. The skin was mostly healed thanks to his blood, but the area was still tender, the skin slightly puckered.
He brought his wrist to his mouth and bit down. Before I could protest, he pressed his bleeding wrist directly against the healing wound.
A sudden, intense heat flared at my side, burning away the lingering ache of the silver. I gasped, clutching his arms, but the pain vanished almost instantly, leaving behind smooth, unblemished skin.
“There,” Draco said quietly, his thumb brushing over the healed spot. He licked his own wrist, sealing the bite mark flawlessly. “No more marks. Except the ones I put there.”
He scooped me up into his arms, lifting me effortlessly. I rested my head against his shoulder, too exhausted to feel embarrassed as he carried me out of the dungeon, leaving the chains and the heavy wooden chair behind in the dark.
He didn't take me back to the bedroom yet. He carried me into the attached master bathroom, a sprawling space of dark marble and glass. He set me down gently on the edge of a massive soaking tub and turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until steam began to fill the room.
“Come,” he said softly, offering his hand.
I took it, stepping under the warm spray. The water felt incredible, washing away the freezing lube, the sweat, and the heavy, musky remnants of our encounter. Draco stepped in behind me. He took a washcloth and a bottle of expensive, cedar-scented body wash, and he bathed me.
There was nothing sexual about it now. It was pure, deliberate care.
He washed the dried spit from my face, the sweat from my chest, and the sticky mess from my thighs with a gentleness that made my chest ache.
He was meticulous, his hands moving over my bruised and battered body with the reverence of a man handling glass.
When we were clean, he wrapped me in a thick, heated towel and carried me back out into the master bedroom.
He laid me down on the massive bed, pulling the heavy duvet up over my shoulders. He pulled on a pair of dark sweatpants and climbed into bed beside me, pulling me flush against his side.
I rested my head on his chest, my fingers tangling loosely in the dark hair there. The steady, slow beat of his ancient heart was a comforting rhythm against my cheek.