Iona
Iknock on Torgan’s door after midnight.
He opens it at once.
No coat. No boots. Black trousers and an unlaced shirt, as if he has been waiting without allowing himself to admit it.
His gaze moves over me.
I chose the soft gray dress because he watches me in gray. The front laces from collarbone to waist. I left my hair loose because I wanted to see what his hands would do with it.
He draws my scent in slowly.
“Iona.”
“I came to revise our terms.”
His claws press out beneath his fingertips.
“Come in.”
The room is warmer than the corridor. A fire burns low. The bed is large enough for a creature built like him, with a carved oak frame bolted to the wall.
I notice the bolts.
He notices me noticing.
“Necessary?”
“Usually.”
That does nothing useful for my breathing.
He shuts the door and drops the bar into place.
Then he stands behind me without touching.
One breath at my hair.
Another at my neck.
A growl begins low in his chest.
I feel it through the air.
“You are afraid.”
“Yes.”
His hands remain at his sides.
“I am also here.”
“That is not enough.”
I turn.
His eyes are nearly black. His lips have parted, baring both fangs. Every claw is out.
“Then ask me.”
“What do you want?”
“You.”
The answer is too broad. I shake my head. “Ask properly.”
His jaw tightens.
“What may I do?”
“My throat stays away from your fangs. The binding bite is not offered.” I put my palm on his chest. His heart strikes hard beneath it. “You may scent me. Mark me anywhere that cannot bind. Use your hands, your mouth, your body. I want your cock inside me.”
His breath leaves slowly.
“How rough?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then I start slow.”
“And when I ask for more?”
“I give you more.”
“Good.”
“One more term,” I say. “I began seedward the morning after the map room. I have not missed a cup. There will be no child from tonight.”
His gaze sharpens. “Your choice?”
“Mine.”
“If that changes, you tell me.”
“I will.”
His thumb settles beneath my jaw, holding my face up.
“Last chance to leave.”
“No.”
He kisses me.
The careful man lasts one breath.
Then his mouth opens over mine and he lifts me against him. My feet leave the floor. I wrap my legs around his hips and feel the hard length of him through both our clothes.
He groans into my mouth.
One hand holds my weight beneath my backside. The other fists in my hair, keeping my head at the angle he needs. The fangs remain outside the line of my lips. When I turn, he turns with me. When the kiss becomes rough, the care becomes more exact rather than less.
He carries me to the bed.
Not gently.
My back hits the furs. He comes down over me, horns framing my face, shoulders blocking the firelight.
The size of him makes me feel trapped.
That is part of why I came.
“Torgan.”
He stops.
“Keep going.”
The old-blood growl answers.
He catches the front lacing of my gray dress in one hand.
“Was this expensive?”
“Very.”
“I will replace it.”
“Later.”
He pulls.
The cord snaps. Two eyelets tear free of the cloth. The front opens from my breasts to my waist.
Cool air reaches my skin.
His eyes fix there.
Then his mouth closes over one nipple.
I arch beneath him.
He sucks hard, tongue rough over the tight point, while his hand covers the other breast. His palm is broad enough to hold all of me. The claws curve around my ribs without touching.
I reach for the base of one horn.
His hips jerk against me.
I rub my thumb where horn meets skin.
Venom shines along his fangs.
He cannot safely close those points around my breast. Instead he turns his jaw, brackets the flesh with the fangs, and clamps his back teeth into the fullness below my nipple.
Pain sparks through the pleasure.
A sharp sound tears out of me.
He lifts his head at once. “Too much?”
“No.”
“Use words.”
“Again. Harder.”
He does.
The second bite is deeper. His tongue presses over the place caught between his back teeth. The fang points stay outside my skin, one on either side of my breast.
The sight is filthy enough to make me clench.
He smells it.
A rough sound leaves him.
He works both breasts until the skin is wet, dark, and tender. Every bite is placed with the same precise turn of his jaw. Every time my body moves unexpectedly, his hand catches and steadies me before I can drive myself into a fang.
Then he drags his face down my body.
He scents every inch he uncovers.
My ribs. My stomach. The soft skin below my navel. He pushes the ruined dress and my shift up together, then spreads my legs with his shoulders.
I am already wet.
He breathes me in.
The sound that comes out of him is not a man’s voice.
“Look at me.”
I lift my head.
He is between my thighs, claws buried in the mattress on either side of my hips. He twists his mouth sideways, keeping both points clear of the vulnerable flesh he means to touch.
“Tell me who put you here.”
“I did.”
“Again.”
“I chose this.”
His breath leaves him slowly.
Then his mouth is on me.
He licks slowly at first, one broad stroke that opens me and makes my legs shake. His lower lip presses against my clit. The fangs remain visible above, dangerous and controlled.
I grab his horns.
His tongue presses harder.
He learns too quickly. The exact place. The pressure. The rhythm that makes my hips lift from the bed.
His forearm comes across my lower belly and pins me down.
I pull at his horns.
He growls against me and pushes two fingers inside.
The stretch is stronger than it was in the map room. He is not being delicate now. He works them deep, curls them, and sucks at the same time.
My body tightens.
“Don’t stop.”
He does not.
The first climax comes hard because he does not change anything when I begin to break.
His tongue stays broad and relentless. His fingers curl into the same place. My abdomen knots beneath his forearm, and my thighs close around his horns and shoulders as the first pulse tears through me.
I lose the shape of the room. There is only the wet drag of his mouth and the contractions clenching around his fingers, one after another, stronger each time he growls against me. He holds my legs open without letting either fang point turn inward.
The final aftershock makes my heels strike the bed.
“Torgan. Enough.”
He stops at once.
His lips and chin are wet. Moisture shines on the fangs though the points never touched me.
He licks me from his mouth while watching my face.
I feel another pulse of arousal.
He smells it.
“You are not finished.”
“No.”
He takes my stocking ties between two claws and cuts them cleanly.
The stockings slide away. He removes the rest of my clothing without tearing it, except for the gray dress. That he strips off me and drops beside the bed, the ruined lacing hanging loose.
Then he stands and undresses.
I have seen him shirtless. I have held him in the map room. Neither prepared me for seeing all of him in the firelight.
His body is scarred from shoulder to thigh. Black hair runs down his chest and narrows over his stomach.
After the map room, the sight of him is no longer a surprise. Knowing how much of him I intend to take is another matter.
My fingers do not meet around him.
His mouth tightens at my silence.
“Too large?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“That is not a no.”
“No.” I stroke upward, feeling the underside ridges harden beneath my hand. “It is not.”
The thick head pushes into my grip. The ring below it catches on my fingers.
Torgan’s claws gouge the bedpost.
I do it again more slowly.
Warm, thick slickness spills from him, more than a human man would produce. I spread it over the crown and down the ridges.
His hips move into my hand.
“Again.”
I stroke him harder.
He bends over me, one hand braced beside my head. His breath comes through his teeth.
I sit up and take the slick head into my mouth.
His entire body locks.
“Iona.”
The warning is almost a snarl.
I look up at him and suck.
One claw tears through the bed curtain.
The flare stretches my lips. The firmer ridge below it drags over them when I pull back. I cannot take much of his length, but the two firm lines underneath give my tongue something specific to follow. I work over them while one hand strokes the shaft and the other tests the thickening base.
His hand closes in my hair, holding rather than forcing.
His hips twitch forward once and stop.
I use the slickness spilling from the crown to make the movement easier. The heat of it coats my lips and hand.
The base begins to swell under my palm.
The base thickens beneath my hand.
I pull my mouth free. “And after the bite?”
His gaze goes to my throat. “Full swell. We stay joined until the venom passes.”
Heat pours between my legs.
He smells the answer before I speak.
“You like that.”
“Yes.”
His claws dig deeper into the post.
I take him into my mouth again. I want the sound he makes when the ring catches against my lips. I want the way the ridges harden beneath my tongue. I want the king’s body betraying exactly how close I bring him.
His grip in my hair tightens.
“Enough.”
I take him deeper.
He pulls me off.
I gasp, angry and wet-mouthed. “I was not finished.”
“Not in your mouth.” His voice breaks. “The bite reflex comes with release. I could cut your tongue.”
That is a fair objection.
He lays me back and climbs over me.
His knee pushes my thighs apart. He takes himself in hand and rubs the slick head through my wetness.
The next thickness catches against my entrance.
The pressure alone makes me gasp.
“Oil,” he says.
A small bottle waits on the bedside table.
“You planned this.”
“I hoped.”
The admission is almost shy. From him, it feels indecent.
He warms oil between his palms and coats his fingers. One slides inside me. Then a second.
He takes his time now.
His fangs are bared. Venom shines at their channels. His claws have ripped the mattress near my hip.
Still, his fingers move only as fast as my body opens.
His fingers spread inside me, working the muscles open. His thumb circles my clit until the remaining tenderness becomes pleasure again.
I rock against his hand.
“More.”
He adds a third finger.