Chapter 6
LAYLA
Krog follows me down to the furs, his massive body caging mine before my back fully settles into the pelts.
His kiss is a possession, deep and claiming. His tongue sweeps past my lips and tastes me like I’m the last thing he’ll ever consume. Maybe I am. Maybe we are each other’s last meal before the Wastes takes us both.
His hands bracket my face, calloused palms softly cradling my jaw. But his mouth is savage. He kisses me like he’s trying to crawl inside my skin, as if the distance between our bodies is an offense he intends to correct.
I let him, open for him. My fingers dig into the muscled ridges of his shoulders, the landscape I’ve admired with my eyes and now learn with my hands, and I pull him closer.
The weight of him is staggering, hard muscle pressing against my breasts, my ribs, my stomach. Every breath is a struggle, and I don’t care.
Let him crush me. Let the last thing I feel before dawn be the impossible weight, the heat of him, the growly vibration that erupts from his chest and hums against my breasts.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. Those amber eyes are nearly black, the pupils blown so wide the gold is just a thin, molten ring. His breathing comes ragged through his nose. The beast is right there, pressing against the surface of him, and I don’t flinch.
I want all of him, the beast included.
My thighs fall open, and I tilt my hips in an ancient, wordless invitation, watching the last thread of his restraint snap.
His head drops to my throat, teeth scraping the sensitive column of my neck.
Not biting exactly, but tasting. His mouth traces down my collarbone, the swell of my breast, the jutting of my ribs, each kiss a brand that sears through my skin and settles in my marrow.
“Too small,” he murmurs against my stomach, his breath hot and damp on the sensitive skin below my navel. “You are too small, Layla. I must make room.”
He moves lower. His massive shoulders push my thighs further apart—wider than they’ve ever been—and he settles between my legs. The sight of him between my thighs is an arousing visual. And when his tongue finds me, every thought evaporates.
I’m okay with that. Now is not the time to think, but the time to feel.
The rasp of his tongue. That rough, cat-like texture I remember from the bathing chamber. This time he isn’t gentle or exploring, he’s claiming.
His tongue drags between my folds and across my clit in broad, flat strokes. The friction is so intense it borders on unbearable, and the sound I make is half moan, half cry.
Every emotional wall I built in the Wastes, every survival reflex that taught me to clench and harden and never, ever let go is dismantled with his mouth. One stroke at a time.
My hips meet his tongue as my hands tangle in his hair, gripping hard enough that my knuckles ache. He growls against me, and the vibration travels through my clit, sending heat coursing through my veins.
He flattens his tongue and drags it slow, then fast, then slow again, finding a rhythm designed to take me apart at the seams.
A thick finger pushes inside me, my body’s own lubrication easing the way. Then a second finger joins the first, and the stretch feels enormous. My body resists, muscles clenching around the intrusion, and a sob tears from my throat before I can stop it.
“It’s too much, Krog!”
He stills immediately. “Is it?”
“Yes,” I say, though I’m shaking my head. “And no. Don’t stop. Please.” The words rush out breathless and desperate and confusing for both of us. My hips chase his retreating hand, rolling forward, seeking.
“Do you wish me to stop, Layla?”
“No. Don’t stop.”
His fingers fill me again, pumping slowly, then curling against the wall of my channel, stroking with a deliberate, methodical pressure. Pleasuring me, stretching me, preparing my body for what’s coming.
His tongue returns to my clit, circling, flattening, humming, while his fingers stroke and stretch.
The sensations are unraveling, and when my body’s resistance melts and stops fighting the onslaught, what replaces it is a hunger so acute it borders on madness.
A desperate, hollowed-out, aching need for release.
My thighs quiver as my spine arches off the furs, hands falling to my sides and clenching the bedding.
The orgasm rips through me with an intensity I’ve never experienced before, a shattering that starts at my core and radiates outward until my vision blurs and my breath seizes and I’m screaming Krog’s name into the vaulted stone ceiling.
His tongue keeps working, his fingers keep thrusting, wringing every last spasm from my body until I collapse into the furs with my chest heaving and tears tracking down my temples.
“Your eyes are leaking again. Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I tell him, unable to stop the tears from streaming. I reach out and cup his cheek. “Just the opposite. You made me feel amazing things, Krog.”
He rises over me, his face glistening from my juices, his chest heaving from the control he’s barely keeping in check. His cock hangs heavy between us, flushed dark green and weeping with precum.
When I consider the impossible size of him, the thick, ridged length and the bulging, rounded head poised against my slick, swollen entrance, genuine terror lances through me.
Then he kisses me. Slow and deep. Tasting my own release on his tongue transforms the terror into desire, a wanting and needing that doesn’t care about physics or proportion or the fact that my body may not survive what comes next.
“Krog.” My voice is raw. Shredded. “Fuck me. Please. I need you.”
His entire body goes rigid above me, a tremor rolling through his arms. “You are sure?”
“I have never been more of anything in my entire life.”
Krog
The taste of Layla coats my lips and tongue while her scent permeates the air around us. Arousal and salt and the delicious tang of her climax feeds the beast inside me. The need to claim her surges through my blood until the beast is nearly rabid, clawing at its remaining restraints.
Take. Take. Take.
My thighs spread her wide as my cock probes her tight entrance. The size difference between us is concerning, and is the only thing stopping me from plunging deep inside her.
A battle between the beast and the Commander begins.
The beast wants to drive forward in a single, brutal thrust, burying his cock tip to root. He wants to feel her clench around him, wants to mark her so completely that no one will ever question that she belongs to him.
Yet with her narrow hips forced open, and her body so small beneath mine, I fight the beast due to conflicting imperatives.
Take. Protect. Claim.
The Commander takes control, knowing he must go slow. She is his everything, and she is fragile.
Taking my cock in hand, I use the tip to stroke her channel, gathering her body’s slick juices to ease my way. Then the head is notched at her entrance again, silky and warm and impossibly tight, and I push in just a little.
The suction of her body pulls at me, creating a vacuum of wet heat that has no equivalence in my life’s experiences. Groaning at the exquisite feel, I inch further in.
She gasps, arching her back. Her hands reach between us and clutch my waist, nails digging into the leathery skin. Not pushing me away. Trying to pull me deeper.
Her channel swallows more of my length, and I hold.
Trembling. Every muscle in my body locked against the urge to thrust. Her walls grip my cock, the heat of her volcanic.
It pulls at me with a force that defies reason, her body recognizing mine, welcoming me, even as the stretch makes her whimper. I plunge deeper still.
Her scent shifts. The sharp edge of pain blooms bright in the air between us, and my chest constricts. But competing with that is the scent of her arousal intensifying. She wants me even when it hurts.
“Do you wish for me to stop?” I manage to ask.
“God, no.” Her voice is broken but breathy and wanting. “I want all of you, Krog. Don’t stop.”
So, I sink deeper. Slowly. An agony of restraint. Each fraction of an inch is a new devastation—hotter, tighter, wetter. Her body resists, then yields, then grips, and the rhythm of it drives both the Commander and the beast to the edge of sanity.
Deeper still. Past the point where my fingers reached. Past the point of her body moving from resisting to welcoming.
I bottom out with a long, howling groan.
The sensation of being fully sheathed inside her, her body stretched to its absolute limit around my thick length, is sacred. It is the only moment in my existence that has ever felt complete.
A roar tears from my chest before I can contain it. The stone walls shake. The ward-lights flicker. The sound that erupts from my chest is not language. It is territory. It is worship.
“Mine.” The word grinds out between my clenched teeth. “Layla is mine.”
She is trembling beneath me. Her eyes are wide and wet and wild. For one terrible heartbeat, I think I have broken her.
Then her legs lock around my waist, her heels dig into the small of my back, and she arches into me. She whimpers my name.
And in return, I move.
Withdrawal is delicious agony. Her body grips me, clinging to the length that has filled her. Every ridge of my cock drags against her channel and the friction is transcendent. Then I’m pushing in again. And out once more.
My initial pace is a slow hydraulic motion, out, then in. Each thrust a little faster, a little harder.
On the third thrust, her body surrenders completely. The tension in her thighs unwinds. Her legs wrap higher around my waist. Her nails grip my hips so she can push back, meeting me thrust for thrust.
The rut arrives unexpected, though I am not surprised.
I feel it rapidly rise, then crest, a biological need that turns control into frenzy. The rut makes me hungrier and less containable. My thrusts accelerate. No longer careful. No longer measured. I fuck Layla with the desperation of a male possessed.