Chapter 4 Feast Of Prey
Feast Of Prey
~HAWK~
The air between us thickens like smoke from a controlled burn—dense, deliberate, laced with the promise of destruction if not handled with precision.
Victoria’s scent wraps around me tighter now, that intoxicating blend of cold iris petals crushed underfoot in a midnight storm, sweetened by the undercurrent of her arousal that her suppressants can’t fully muzzle.
It’s a siren call to the feral beast coiled inside me, the one that paces restlessly behind bars forged from sheer willpower and the stabilizing anchor of her presence.
My cock strains against the boxers, aching with a heat that mirrors the fire building in my veins, but I hold back. Always hold back at the start.
Because this isn’t just about release; it’s about unraveling her, layer by deliberate layer, until the Emotionless Queen crumbles into the woman only I get to see.
She’s perched on the edge of the table, thighs parted just enough to frame me, the black leather of her bodysuit gleaming under the afternoon light filtering through the grimy kitchen window.
The fabric hugs her like a second skin, accentuating the subtle swell of her hips, the dip of her waist, the way her breasts rise and fall with breaths she’s trying—and failing—to steady.
Her storm-gray eyes lock onto mine, pupils blown wide, the cobalt rings around them thinning to near invisibility.
There’s defiance there, always defiance, but it’s threaded with need, a silent plea wrapped in the armor of her silence.
I pin her down slowly, my hands sliding from her hips to her shoulders, guiding her back until her spine meets the cool wood of the table. She doesn’t resist—doesn’t need to.
Her body arches slightly as she settles, the movement pulling the leather taut over her chest, her nipples pebbling against the fabric from the chill or the anticipation or both.
I loom over her, bracing one hand beside her head, the other trailing down her side, careful to skirt the bandaged wound at her ribs.
The reminder of last night’s near-miss sends a flicker of fury through me, but I channel it into focus. She’s here. Alive. Mine to protect, mine to pleasure, mine to remind that existence can be more than just enduring.
“You’re going to feel every second of this,” I murmur, my voice a low rumble that vibrates through the space between us. Her lips part, but no words escape—just a soft exhale that ghosts across my face, carrying the faint mint of her toothpaste and the deeper, intrinsic taste of her.
I start at her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat, feeling her pulse jump under my tongue like a trapped bird fluttering against bars.
She tilts her head back instinctively, exposing more skin, and I take it—nipping lightly at the junction where her neck meets her shoulder, soothing the sting with a slow lick. Her scent spikes, sharper now, and a faint tremor runs through her body.
I admire how she looks so perfect in this bodysuit, how it simply actuates her body and curve in all forms. It also protects her tab wound, which he had every intention of avoiding, but everywhere else?
Everywhere else is mine to claim. I slide the fabric aside her pussy, exposing her glistening cunt to the cool air, watching as her nipples harden further against the leather fabric, begging for attention.
I lean down, tugging at the fabric enough to set her breasts free, allowing me to capture on of those hard pebbles one in my mouth, swirling my tongue around the peak while my hand cups the other, thumb circling in tandem.
Victoria’s back arches off the table, a soft gasp escaping her—quiet, controlled, but there.
Always there, that first crack in her facade.
I work her like that for minutes, alternating between her breasts, lavishing them with attention until her breaths come in shallow pants, her fingers threading into my hair, gripping just tight enough to sting.
The pain grounds me, keeps the feral edge at bay, reminds me that this is us—balanced on the knife’s edge of control and chaos.
I trail kisses lower, down the valley between her breasts, over the flat plane of her stomach, dipping my tongue into her navel just to feel her squirm.
Her legs part wider as I descend, her thighs trembling faintly under my palms as I spread them further, hooking her knees over the table’s edge to expose her completely.
She’s glistening, wet and ready, her folds swollen with need, the scent of her arousal hitting me like a punch to the gut. Cold iris and rain-soaked earth, sweetened by that Omega honey that makes my mouth water.
My cock throbs painfully, but I ignore it.
This is for her first.
I settle between her thighs, my breath fanning over her sensitive skin, watching her hips twitch in anticipation. “Look at you,” I growl, my voice thick with hunger. “So wet for me already. You need this, don’t you, Precious?”
She doesn’t answer, but her eyes—half-lidded, stormy—tell me everything.
I lean in, flattening my tongue against her, lapping her up in one long, slow stroke from entrance to clit.
The taste of her explodes on my tongue—tart and sweet, like forbidden fruit in a shadowed garden.
She bucks against my mouth, a muffled whimper escaping her, and I pin her hips down with one forearm, holding her steady as I feast.
I lap at her relentlessly, broad strokes that gather her essence, savoring every drop.
Her thighs clamp around my head, muscles tensing, but I don’t let up.
My tongue delves into her folds, tracing every crease, dipping inside her entrance to taste her deeper.
She’s soaking now, her arousal coating my chin, and the sounds—wet, obscene—fill the kitchen like a symphony of surrender.
I move up to her clit, circling it with the tip of my tongue, teasing the sensitive bud until her breaths turn ragged, her fingers tightening in my hair to the point of pain.
“ Hawk…” The word slips from her lips, breathy and broken, and it’s music to my feral ears.
I suck her clit into my mouth, flicking it with precise, rapid strokes, alternating pressure—light, then firm, then light again—building her toward the edge.
Her body winds tighter, hips straining against my hold, and I feel the moment she shatters: a full-body shudder, her walls clenching around nothing, a cry tearing from her throat as she cums against my tongue.
I drink her down, lapping through her release, prolonging it until she’s trembling, oversensitive, pushing weakly at my head.
But I’m not finished.
I pull back just enough to look at her—face flushed, eyes glazed, chest heaving—and slide one finger inside her.
She’s molten, tight and wet, her inner walls fluttering around the intrusion.
I curl it upward, stroking that spot inside her that makes her gasp, my thumb finding her clit and circling lazily.
“That’s it,” I murmur, watching her face as I add a second finger, stretching her, scissoring them to prepare her for what’s coming. She’s so responsive, her body arching off the table, hips rocking into my hand as I pump my fingers in and out, building a rhythm that matches the pulse of her need.
Her breaths turn to moans—soft at first, then louder, unrestrained in a way she only allows here, with me. I curl my fingers harder, thumb pressing firmly on her clit, and she clenches around me, her release crashing over her again.
“Hawk—fuck—” She cums hard, walls spasming around my digits, coating them in her slick.
I work her through it, slowing only when she slumps back, boneless and breathless.
I withdraw my fingers, bringing them to my mouth, licking them clean while she watches. The taste of her lingers, addictive, and my cock aches with the need to be inside her.
“Delicious,” I growl, standing up, shoving my boxers down. My length springs free, hard and heavy, the piercing at the tip glinting in the light—a barbell that catches on her every time, heightening the sensation for us both.
And at the base, hidden in the nest of trimmed hair, her name inked in elegant script: Victoria.
A secret claim, a birthday surprise she hasn’t noticed yet.
I position myself at her entrance, the head of my cock nudging her folds, teasing.
She’s slick, ready, and her eyes meet mine—stormy, wanting.
I slide in slow, inch by inch, feeling her stretch around me, the piercing dragging along her walls in a way that makes her gasp.
She’s tight, perfect, her heat enveloping me like a vice forged just for this.
I bottom out, hips flush against hers, and pause, savoring the connection, the way her body molds to mine.
“Feel that?” I whisper, rolling my hips in a deep, grinding motion. “All for you.”
She nods, biting her lip, and I start moving—slow and deep, each thrust deliberate, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in. I time it, pacing myself against the feral urge to rut hard and fast, building the tension coil by coil.
Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my back, urging me deeper. I lean over her, bracing on my forearms, careful of her wound, our faces inches apart as I thrust, the table creaking under us.
The pace shifts when her moans turn desperate, her nails raking down my back.
I speed up, fucking her harder, faster, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.
I can feel the telltale pressure building at the root of my cock, the knot threatening to balloon with each buck of my hips—thickening, swelling, desperate to lock me tight to her and make this union absolute.
But I hold it in check, clenching every ounce of self-control I possess, refusing to give in to the feral demand for total possession.