Chapter 16 Vokar
VOKAR
The moment the door seals, the world shrinks to the size of this room—this bed—this woman.
Freya stands under the low red emergency light, all soft curves and quiet fire, and something in me tightens. She is so small she shouldn’t look real. Five-foot-one, barely over a hundred pounds, a slip of human vulnerability wrapped in golden hair and pale skin. Fragile by every measure.
Except she isn’t.
She looks at me like she expects me to touch her. Like she wants me to.
My claws twitch.
I step closer.
The bone-plates along my shoulders shift as I roll them back, the weight of war sliding off me. My voice comes out low, almost reverent. “Your body speaks,” I murmur, cupping her jaw with one enormous hand. “I’m listening.”
Her breath hitches. The smallest sound. A soft flutter.
But her eyes stay steady—green, bright, fearless.
My thumb traces the line of her jaw. Her skin is warm, impossibly soft. Her pulse thrums under my fingertips, quick and light, like a trapped bird. My other hand drifts downward—neck, collarbone, shoulder. I touch her like she’s something carved from light rather than flesh.
She lifts her hand, lays it flat over the bone spur at my wrist. My skin there is cold, hardened. She doesn’t flinch. She presses harder.
“Then hear this,” she whispers.
My chest tightens. Something ancient in me stirs.
I gather her gently, lifting her as if she weighs nothing—and to me, she barely does. She melts into me, wrapping tiny limbs around my massive frame, hips pressing into mine.
Our lips meet—slow, controlled. A test. A question. A promise.
Her pussy presses against the ridges of my abdomen, heat seeping through her thin uniform pants, and my cock surges to life instantly, throbbing against the seam of my trousers. I swallow a growl into her mouth.
She tastes like fearlessness.
She tastes like want.
I ease us toward the berth, lowering her carefully. The mattress is thin, the sheets rough, but she doesn’t seem to care. She reaches up, fingertips brushing the sharp ridges of my cheekbones.
“Take this off,” she breathes.
I shed my layers. Bone plates unclasp. Cloth falls away. I become larger without the armor—more monstrous, more myself.
Her breath catches at the sight of me naked. Not in fear. In hunger.
Her hands move first—not mine. She lifts her shirt, pulling it over her head in one swift motion, exposing pale skin that glows under the red light. Her breasts rise with her breath—small, soft, perfect.
I exhale her name. “Freya…”
She crawls into my lap, straddling me. Her thighs barely span my hips. Her fingers trace the outer ridge of a spur on my bicep. “Touch me, Vokar.”
Gods.
I slide my palms up her legs, tracing her from knee to hip. Her skin is warm satin beneath my rough, scaled hands. She shivers when my fingers reach her waist. I pull her shirtless body flush against my chest, her nipples brushing the bone spur at my collar, and she gasps—sharp and helpless.
“Sensitive?” I murmur.
“Don’t stop.”
Her courage wrecks me.
I lift her, setting her back on the berth, and kneel between her legs. Slowly—agonizingly—I run my claws along her thighs, blunt edges grazing skin. She opens for me without being asked, thighs parting wider.
Her pants cling to her pussy, damp with arousal.
I lean forward and inhale. The scent hits me like a charge—sweet, slick, human desire mixed with adrenaline and trust. My mouth waters.
“Off,” I command softly.
She lifts her hips. I peel her pants down her legs, dragging my palms along her calves, her ankles, her feet. She is delicate, breakable in every limb—but when I spread her legs again, her pussy gleams with invitation.
My breath leaves me in a groan.
“So wet already,” I growl. “For me?”
Her cheeks flush deeper. “Yes.”
I lower my face between her thighs. The warmth radiating from her skin is intoxicating. I drag my tongue—slow and flat—from the base of her pussy all the way up to her clit.
Freya cries out, fingers knotting in my hair as her back arches.
“Vokar—”
Her taste floods my senses—sweet, sharp, addictive. I growl against her, vibrations rolling through her as I latch my mouth around her clit and suck.
Her thighs snap around my head. She moans, trembling uncontrollably, grinding against my face. I hold her hips steady with both hands, pinning her down as I flick her clit with my tongue, then bury it inside her pussy again.
She’s so tight around my tongue it makes me groan.
“Don’t stop,” she gasps. “Don’t—don’t—”
I don’t.
I worship.
I devour.
I taste her like a soldier starved of water in a desert.
Her breath starts to break.
“Vokar—I—”
“Come,” I growl into her pussy. “Now.”
Her orgasm hits like a detonation. Her whole body arches off the bed, legs crushing around my head as she screams my name. I keep licking, tasting every pulse, every flood of heat. Her fingers yank at my hair. Her voice cracks.
She collapses back, panting. Dazed.
I rise slowly, towering over her. My cock is hard—aching, heavy, ridges pulsing with blood.
She sees it. Her lips part around a soft, involuntary moan.
I crawl over her, placing a hand beside her head, lowering my weight carefully so I don’t crush her. Her tiny fingers splay over my chest, tracing bone and muscle.
“Vokar…” she whispers. “I want you inside me.”
I press the blunt head of my cock against her pussy. She’s so small. So impossibly tight.
“You tell me if I hurt you.”
“You won’t,” she whispers.
“You don’t know that.”
She cups my face. “I trust you.”
The breath leaves me.
Slowly—slowly—I push inside. The first inch makes her gasp, eyes widening. I pause.
“Too much?”
“N-no—keep going—”
Another inch. Another. Her pussy stretches around me, struggling, yielding, pulling me deeper with heat that borders on pain.
Her fingers clutch my shoulders. Her breath stutters.
“Freya,” I rasp, voice breaking. “You’re—gods—you’re so tight—”
I push deeper until I bottom out, my hips kissing hers. She cries out, nails raking my back. I hold still, trembling with restraint.
“Breathe,” I whisper. “Let your body take me.”
She inhales sharply—then lifts her hips.
“Move,” she begs. “Please—fuck me.”
I growl low and start to thrust.
Slow at first—deep strokes that push me against every fragile inch of her. Her pussy tightens around me with every movement, drawing me deeper, holding me like she never wants to let go.
Her breath breaks into moans. Her nails bite my skin. Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my lower back.
“Harder,” she pleads.
I snap.
I brace my hands on either side of her head and drive into her—hard, deep, relentless. The bed slams against the wall with every thrust. Freya cries out, meeting me stroke for stroke, her tiny hands fisting the sheets.
“Vokar—gods—yes—”
Her pussy squeezes tighter, milking me, pulling me toward the edge. I lean down and bite her shoulder—not enough to break skin. Enough to mark.
“Mine,” I growl into her neck. “Mine.”
“Yes,” she sobs. “Yours—yours—”
Her orgasm hits violently—her whole body convulsing beneath me, pussy clamping so hard around my cock that I roar her name. The sensation tears through me, white-hot, unstoppable.
I slam into her once more and spill deep inside her, heat flooding her in pulse after pulse.
We collapse together. She clings to me, shaking. I curl around her, holding her gently even though my body still vibrates with aftershocks.
Her breath warms my chest. Her fingers trace my ribs. She whispers into my skin:
“I heard you.”
I close my eyes, letting the truth settle:
I am not war here.
I am not Warlord or Reaper or killer.
I am hers.
And she is mine.