Iona #2
The stretch burns, then eases. He curls them, drives them deeper, and brings me close enough that my body becomes soft and slick around the pressure.
“Now,” I say.
He withdraws his hand and coats his cock with more oil, working it over the crown, the ring, and the underside ridges.
Then he positions himself.
“Still yes?”
“Yes.”
The blunt flare presses against me.
The first stretch burns.
My body resists the flare. He stops with only the widest part beginning to enter.
“Breathe.”
“I am.”
“You are holding it.”
I let the breath out.
His thumb returns to my clit. Pleasure loosens the tension.
He rocks the crown against me rather than forcing it. A small retreat. Another press. Each movement lets me open a little farther around the flare.
Then the head slips inside.
The ring follows.
The sound I make stops him.
He freezes.
“Hold,” I say.
Every muscle in him strains. His fangs remain bared above his lower lip. His claws have pierced the mattress but not me.
I breathe until the burning eases.
The ring sits just inside me, making the fullness impossible to ignore. Two harder lines press along the lower wall of my body.
I move my hips experimentally.
The ring drags.
Pleasure cuts through the stretch.
“Oh.”
The last gray vanishes behind Torgan’s pupils. “What?”
“The ridge. Move back a little.”
He withdraws until the ring catches at my entrance.
“Now in.”
He presses forward.
Every short drag scrapes exactly where I need it.
My legs tighten around his hips.
“Again.”
His jaw flexes.
He gives me the same short stroke. Out until the flare catches. In until he sits deep.
The burn becomes heat.
“More.”
He moves deeper by inches.
Slowly. Relentlessly. My body opens around the thick shaft in small, hot increments. Every time he advances, the underside ridges drag over sensitized flesh. Every time he pauses, I feel my pulse beating around him.
When his hips finally meet mine, I am stretched so full that I cannot decide whether I want him to move or remain exactly there.
He bows his head, fighting for air.
His base has begun to swell. I can feel it thickening against my entrance, not trapping, but adding pressure.
“Torgan.”
“Do not move yet.”
I move my hips.
His claws rip through the mattress.
“Iona.”
“You said I could ask for more.”
“Ask.”
“Move.”
He draws back.
The ring and ridges drag through me. The sensation is almost too much.
Then he pushes in again, one deep controlled stroke that makes me cry out.
Again.
Again.
His rhythm remains slow because it has to. The bed strikes the wall each time his hips meet mine. I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer.
He kisses me, turning his jaw so the fang points remain outside my lips. The angle changes. The next thrust drives the underside ridges hard across the place inside me that makes my whole body tighten.
“There.”
He does it again.
My nails score his back.
“Harder.”
He stops.
His face is strained. “Be certain.”
“I am.”
“How hard?”
I grab the base of his horn and pull his forehead down to mine. “Enough that I know it is you.”
The control leaves his eyes.
He takes my wrists in one hand and pins them above my head.
His other hand hooks under my knee and opens me wider.
Then he drives into me.
The force knocks the breath from my lungs.
He does it again before I recover.
The bedframe slams against the wall. The ring below his crown catches on every withdrawal. The underside ridges scrape through me on every thrust. His broad root strikes against my entrance, swelling further but never locking.
His claws score the wood above my hands.
There is no room left for thought.
Only his weight. The stretch. The hard drag of his body through mine. The wet sound of each stroke. My cunt opening and gripping around anatomy built to make escape slow once he is close to climax.
“Say my name.”
“Torgan.”
He thrusts harder.
“Again.”
“Torgan.”
His teeth bare. “Say it again.”
Possession tightens low and deep inside me.
“My choice,” I gasp.
He closes his eyes for one beat. “Yes.”
Then he turns me.
One arm around my waist. The room spins. I land on my knees with my chest against the furs.
He pulls my hips up.
The position opens me differently. The thick head presses against my entrance again before he enters. This time I know what is coming.
I push back.
The ring slips inside.
He growls.
His clawed hand spreads between my shoulder blades, holding me down without cutting. His other hand guides himself back into me.
My shout disappears into the furs.
He pauses only long enough to let my body take the full thickness.
“Continue,” I say.
His hand slides into my hair and lifts my head.
“Let me hear you.”
Then he takes me from behind.
There is nothing gentle left except the placement of his claws and fangs.
His palm pins me while the points curve above my skin. His hips strike mine hard enough to bruise. The underside ridges grind over the same deep place until every thrust drives a broken sound from my mouth.
I push back to meet him.
He snarls.
The old blood is in his voice now. Less language. More command.
“Open.”
I spread my knees wider.
“Good.”
The praise makes me clench around him.
He loses rhythm for one stroke.
I do it again on purpose.
His hand leaves my hair and comes around my body. Two fingers circle my clit, slower than his hips.
Hard thrusts. Slow fingers.
The combination breaks me.
The second climax rises more slowly, built by every deep stroke and the patient circle of his fingers.
I try to warn him. The word dissolves when the pressure folds inward. My body clamps around him in long, dragging contractions, each one pulling another broken sound from me. I grip the furs because my arms will not hold me. My knees spread wider on their own.
He feels every pulse. His rhythm falters once, then steadies beneath me while I sob his name into the bed.
“Look at me.”
I cannot from this position.
He pulls me upright against his chest without leaving my body. One arm locks beneath my breasts. His hand turns my face toward him.
My throat lies open.
Both of us go still.
The fangs are already there, long and sharp, inches from my pulse. Venom gathers bright along the channels.
His body shakes behind me. The swelling thickens inside and against me, making withdrawal slower.
“Torgan.”
His eyes find mine.
“Not my throat.”
He turns his head and presses his mouth against the old mark on my shoulder, far from the pulse. Both fang points stay outside the bruise.
His back teeth close.
Then he thrusts again.
The safe bite sends one clean edge of pain through the fullness. His next drive catches the ridges deep inside me, and my body gives way around both.
I come with his back teeth in my shoulder and his cock buried to the root.
The first contraction locks my hips against him.
The second ripples the whole length of him inside me.
I cannot move away from the pressure, and I do not want to.
His hand tightens below my breasts while the orgasm keeps closing around him in hard, wet pulses.
He feels it. His control breaks in my name.
At the last second he tears his mouth away.
His fangs drive into his right forearm.
Blood runs over his wrist and onto my breast.
He comes inside me with a violent shudder. His body pulses thickly at my entrance, slowing every involuntary movement. His release comes in several heavy spurts, hotter than I expect, each one accompanied by another clench of his body and another crack from the headboard.
We stay locked together, both of us shaking.
Then he withdraws his fangs from his arm.
The punctures bleed freely.
I twist my shoulders in his hold, keeping my hips still around the thick root. “Give me that.”
“It closes quickly.”
“Give it to me.”
He holds out his arm.
I press the sheet to the wounds. His blood is nearly black in the firelight.
He is still inside me, the partial swell easing slowly enough that neither of us can separate immediately without hurting me.
“Wait,” he says when I shift.
“I wasn’t trying to escape.”
“The base is still thick.”
I feel it clearly now. Not a lock. A heavy fullness that makes the smallest movement drag the ridges through me again.
My body tightens.
He groans.
“Do not do that.”
“I did not do it deliberately.”
“You are pleased.”
“Yes.”
His forehead drops to my shoulder.
We remain joined while the swelling eases. I tend the wounds on his arm. He strokes my hip with the flat pads of his fingers, claws forced away.
His thumb moves over my hip while I hold the cloth to his arm.
“Three heartbeats,” he says.
“What?”
“The relief after I bite something else. Three heartbeats. Then the ache knows I lied to it.”
I kiss the skin beside the punctures.
His breath stops.
“You take care of me,” he says.
It is not a question.
“Yes.”
“No one does.”
“Then they are idiots.”
His mouth moves. Almost a smile.
When the pressure finally eases, he slides free by fractions. The last thick drag pulls a raw shiver through me.
He lowers us onto the bed and pulls me against his chest. The headboard is cracked and hangs crooked above us, but the two iron wall bolts still hold.
My body aches everywhere. Between my thighs. At my shoulder. Around the bruises his fingers left on my hips. My breasts throb where his back teeth held them.
I touch each mark.
He watches.
“Regret?”
“No.”
“Pain?”
“Yes.”
His face closes.
“Good pain,” I say. “The kind I asked for.”
“That distinction will take practice.”
“We have time.”
The words settle between us.
I am not ready to give him forever. I am ready to let the possibility live.
“I am not offering the bite tonight.”
“I know.”
“I need to be able to say it without fear, gratitude, or my council standing behind me.”
“Yes.”
“But the answer may become yes.”
Hope opens across his face before he can stop it.
He buries it against my hair.
I lie with my ear over his heart, his scent on my skin, his release warm inside me, and the marks of his mouth beginning to darken.
The gray dress lies torn beside the bed. The front lacing will never sit properly again.
In the morning, I intend to let the court see what survived it.