Torgan
The following night, I wake with my fangs caught in Iona’s hair.
Not skin.
Not yet.
The ache has dragged me across the bed in my sleep. My mouth is open beside her ear. One sharp point is buried in the dark mass of her hair. Venom tastes sweet under my tongue.
I pull back before she moves.
Her hand catches my wrist. The bandage around my forearm shifts beneath her fingers; the punctures have sealed, but the flesh is still tender.
“No.”
She is awake at once, eyes clear in the dark.
“I need the yard.”
“You need to stop leaving without waking me.”
“Iona.”
“How bad?”
“Bad.”
My honesty seems to satisfy her. She reaches for the lamp.
“Do not light it.”
“Why?”
“I do not want to see your throat.”
Her hand stops.
The room remains dark except for the low fire.
The mattress shifts. Her bare leg moves over mine. She straddles my thighs.
Her scent is sleep-warm, already changing.
“What does it want?” she asks.
“You know.”
“Say it.”
I grip the sheets. My claws cut through them.
“It wants me to roll you under me. Hold your head still. Put both fangs into your neck and empty the venom until nothing in your body remains outside me.”
Her thighs tense around mine.
I smell arousal, not permission.
“It thinks you should already be bound,” I say. “It does not understand why I keep leaving the last part of you beyond my reach.”
“And what do you want?”
“The same thing.”
The answer is rough enough to hurt.
She puts both hands on my chest. “Not tonight.”
“No.”
“But I can choose something else tonight.”
I look at her.
“One night,” she says. “One answer. Not a standing promise. Ask me when it wakes you. I decide each time.”
“I will not use you as medicine.”
“Then do not.” Her palms slide over my chest. “Use me because I want you. Let it help because our bodies are involved whether we like the timing or not.”
Her scent thickens.
The ache surges.
“What do you choose now?” I ask.
She lifts my shirt over her head.
Her body appears in the low firelight. My marks have darkened across her shoulder, breasts, and hip. Her nipples tighten when the cold air reaches them.
“This.”
My claws extend fully.
Iona takes my right hand.
“Show me again.”
“Not now.”
“Now.”
She turns my palm upward. Five black claws curve beyond my fingertips.
“The underside is smooth,” I say. “The outer edge and point cut.”
She touches the flat underside of my forefinger claw to the curve of her breast.
My heart stops.
“Iona.”
“How much pressure?”
“Very little.”
She drags it slowly beneath her nipple.
The claw does not break skin. It leaves a pale line that turns pink behind it.
Her breath shakes.
“Again.”
I try to pull my hand away.
She grips my wrist. “Ask me.”
I understand the correction.
“Do you want the claw again?”
“Yes.”
I sit up beneath her.
With my left arm around her back, I guide the flat side of one claw over her other breast. Lightly. The point hovers above her skin.
She arches into the touch.
“More.”
I add pressure.
The claw draws a red line over the soft curve. No blood.
Her hips grind over my hard cock through the sheets.
The fang ache stutters.
She feels the change in my body. “Better?”
“For one breath.”
“Then take another.”
She reaches down and closes her hand around me.
My cock is already slick. Her thumb circles the flare, then traces the two hard lines down the underside.
I growl.
She strokes once. Twice. Then stops.
“Oil.”
I reach for the bottle beside the bed.
She takes it from me.
“I control this.”
The old blood pulls against the words. I keep my hips still.
“Yes.”
She pours oil into her palm, warms it, and coats me from crown to root. Her fingers pause over the muscular flare at the base.
“It has already started.”
“Yes.”
“How close are you?”
“Too close for patience.”
“Then you will practice.”
She shifts forward and rubs the slick crown through her wetness.
Every muscle in my body locks.
“Iona.”
“Hands on my waist.”
I obey.
“Claws out.”
“No.”
“The flat sides. Points away.”
Her body hovers over mine. She waits.
I put both palms on her waist. The claws curve along her sides, points angled outward.
“Hold me.”
I do.
She lowers herself onto me.
The stretch catches her breath. She stops with the head barely inside.
Her body is still sore from the night before. I feel the tension in every small movement.
“Too soon,” I say.
“No.” She breathes. “Slower.”
She rocks against the first thick stretch, easing herself open until the ring presses at her entrance.
Her face tightens.
I start to lift her.
She slaps my shoulder. “Stay.”
I stay.
She lowers another inch.
The ring passes inside. Her body closes around the shaft beneath it.
A groan tears out of me.
She pauses, eyes shut, breathing through the fullness.
“Tell me,” I say.
“Stretched.”
“Pain?”
“Some.”
“Stop?”
“No.” She opens her eyes. “Do not move.”
I do not.
She sinks farther at her own pace. The firmer underside drags along her inner wall. I feel each small tightening as she discovers what my shape does to her.
“There,” she whispers.
She lifts half an inch and sinks again.
The ridges catch the same place.
Her mouth opens.
She does it once more.
My claws press pink tracks into her sides.
When she finally sits fully in my lap, my base is thick against her entrance. Not enough to trap. Enough to make her very still.
She sits motionless on me until the first sting settles into pleasure.
I smell both.
“Iona.”
“Still yes.”
She rocks once.
The tight drag pulls a groan from me. She does it again, testing the angle, then begins to ride.
Slow at first.
Her hands brace on my shoulders. Her hair falls around us. I keep my palms on her hips and the claws curved safely along her sides.
The old blood quiets enough to listen.
She circles her hips and finds the place that makes her gasp.
“There.”
I start to thrust upward.
She presses one hand flat against my chest. “No. Mine.”
I force my hips still.
She rides my shape at the pace she chooses. Each descent takes me fully. Each lift drags the harder underside through her until her breath breaks.
The sight is unbearable.
My marks on her body. My cock disappearing into her. Her hands controlling how much of me she takes and how fast.
Her throat opens above me when her head falls back.
The ache roars.
I clamp my mouth shut and turn my face away.
Iona catches one horn and forces my head back toward her.
“Look at me. Not my throat. My face.”
I obey.
She strokes the warm base of the horn with her thumb.
My hips jerk upward despite her order.
The thrust drives me deeper.
She cries out.
I freeze.
Her nails dig into my shoulder.
“Again,” she says.
“You said your control.”
“I changed the term.”
“How much?”
“Meet me.”
I thrust upward as she drops.
The impact knocks a sound from both of us.
Again.
She rides down. I drive up.
The pace turns rough quickly. Her knees grip my sides. My hands pull her onto every thrust. The claws leave red tracks but no broken skin.
Her mouth finds mine.
She follows the angle I taught her. Her tongue moves carefully beside the fangs, touching the smooth inner curve of one without pressing on the point.
Venom floods my mouth.
I tear away before it can spill between us.
“Shoulder,” she says.
“No bite.”
“I did not ask for one. Put your mouth on the mark.”
She presses her shoulder to my lips.
I turn my jaw and set the old bruise between the fangs without closing my teeth. My tongue lies flat over the mark. Her salt and heat fill me.
The ache quiets.
Not completely.
Enough.
I groan against her skin and thrust harder.
She gasps, one hand fisting in my hair. “Yes. There.”
Language leaves us after that.
Her body slams down over mine. My hips drive up. The already-cracked headboard knocks against the wall, but the iron bolts hold. Every short withdrawal catches inside her. The harder underside grinds through her with every return.
She takes my left hand from her waist and puts the flat side of one claw over her nipple.
I drag it across the tight point.
Her cunt clenches around me.
I do it again.
She comes without warning.
Her whole body locks in my lap. The contractions seize around my cock, dragging hard over the swollen root.
The fang hunger surges with my own climax.
My mouth opens against her shoulder. The fangs frame the bruise, close enough that one wrong turn would pierce her.
I try to pull away.
She locks both arms around my head.
“Stay.”
“I cannot bite.”
“Do not bite. Hold.”
Her body keeps pulsing around me.
I hold.
My lips and tongue seal over the safe mark. The fang points touch nothing. My hands grip her hips with claws curved away.
She rocks down once, hard.
I come inside her.
The swelling pulses at her entrance. My release comes in several heavy surges while she holds my mouth exactly where the hunger wants it and refuses to give it the one act she has not chosen.
It is enough to keep my fangs out of my own flesh.
When the last pulse passes, she loosens her arms.
I lift my head.
Iona is breathing hard. Sweat shines along her throat. The claw lines on her ribs are red and raised.
“No blood,” she says.
“No.”
“Did it help?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“More than the yard. More than the strap.”
She nods, thinking.
I am still thick inside her. She tries to shift and winces.
“Do not move yet,” I say.
“I know.”
She leans her forehead against mine while the swelling eases. I check every claw line with my fingertips. Red. Unbroken. Exactly as she asked.
She watches my face.
“I like them.”
“I nearly cut you.”
“But you stopped when I asked.” She touches the unbroken red line with one fingertip. “That is the part I trust.”
I do not have an answer.
When I soften enough, she lifts herself off me slowly. The ring catches at her entrance and pulls a small shudder from her.
She lies against my side.
I start to rise.
Her hand closes around my wrist.
“Where?”
“Water. Cloth. Salve.”
“That is permitted.”
I clean her carefully. She cleans me with less patience and more interest than necessary.
When we return beneath the furs, she puts my head on her chest and my ear over her heart.
“Next time the ache wakes you,” she says, “ask me.”
“I will not assume.”
“Good.”
“And if you say no?”
“You use the strap. Or the yard. Or you wake Ghenn and make him discuss grain until the urge dies.”
“That may kill us both.”
Her chest moves beneath my cheek with a tired laugh.
“Ask each time,” she says. “I decide each time.”
“Yes.”
Her heart slows beneath my ear. The leather strap remains untouched beside the bed.
When I open my eyes again, morning light lies across her shoulder.