Chapter 15 #2
“Fuck no.” Then he pulled out his finger and sank his cock into me in one rough stroke.
I’d never been taken in one big thrust before, and pleasure and pain mingled in a sharp burst. Deep, so thick—I burned as my body struggled to accommodate him.
Thatcher swore again, braced himself on one hand, and pinned my hip against the bed with the other.
My passage was forced wide open, and the pearls around my opening burst with pleasure and slickness.
Those veins, that slick silk covering hard steel, it was indescribable.
A very unexpected side effect. Veins meant more texture, more sensation against my pearls, and thus more pleasure.
It skyrocketed, bursting through me until I shattered with a shout.
“Ah, Thatcher!” I screamed his name, but he was merciless as he kept fucking me.
In and out, each thrust deep, firm, precise.
Pressure kept mounting, and his face was a mask of concentration.
I stared, entranced by the play of emotion, the sleek motion of muscle—his abs decorated with the finest trail of hair leading straight to his cock.
It tempted my eyes down, and I found myself watching the way he tunneled in and out of me.
“Mine, Ysa. Your pussy is mine, your body is mine, your pleasure—mine. Got that?” he snarled, and his grip grew tighter, his thrusts faster.
I clawed at his wrist, then vaguely remembered this was supposed to be a mating.
I’d started this the Ulinial way, and if I wanted this to mean something according to my traditions, I had to finish it that way.
My hands struggled on the sheets to find my braid, my mind hazed with pleasure, and the grunts he made, the slap of flesh coming wetly together.
“Oh, I got it,” I moaned. “I got it all right.” There, the soft silk of my hair was just within reach.
I drew it to me, and Thatcher did not object when I did exactly as before.
Only this time, I struggled to get the loop around his neck.
I had to throw it twice on account of being partially blinded by pleasure.
The bastard didn’t try to help, just laughed as he fucked me harder and forced pleasure to spike so close to orgasm that I nearly lost it.
When it settled against the back of his neck, I gave it another loop, and then I pulled on the end and tightened it.
Normally, this was the male’s job, but I rather liked taking back control a little this way.
Especially when Thatcher moaned, deep and guttural.
His hips stuttered briefly, and the hand on my hip left to touch the rope now wound around his neck.
I pulled harder, and he gasped, groaned.
It was not enough to hurt, not even close enough to choke him, but it drew his attention.
“You’re mine, Thatch. This goes both ways,” I gritted out.
There it was, that sexy half-smile I so loved.
It sent me over the edge, shoving me down into a sea of pleasure so thick I felt like I was drowning.
I screamed, thrashed beneath him, my heels kicking the bed, his legs.
I might have pulled even harder on that braid, so hard I felt it tug at my scalp in turn.
Thatcher could take it, though, his cock swelling inside of me, harder, thicker.
His shout followed mine, and we tumbled together, sweaty and full of pleasure.
It had all gone fast, even if it was beautiful and lovely.
Even if he’d been demanding and bossy, as per usual.
I didn’t want it to be over yet, wanted a chance to linger here, so I gently nudged his shoulder.
He rolled for me, and I allowed my eyes to roam.
So many muscles, so many tempting lines of ink.
I touched to my heart’s content, passion stirring slowly, more gently this time.
When I traced his slick but slightly softened cock with my fingers, he groaned, and it stirred anew.
“You’re lucky, woman. You are not dealing with a regular man.
I’m part machine.” His cock flexed, growing beautifully firm again, but he did not let me stroke him for long.
My braid was still partially tangled around his neck and pulled at my scalp, but neither of us paid it much attention.
He dragged me across the bed, pulled my thighs apart, and then buried his face between them.
Shocked, I kicked the sheets, his ribs, but he was relentless in his mission.
His mouth found the nubs surrounding my opening, my core.
He licked, suckled, lapped, and teased. I became aware of the stubble on his jaw, rough and prickly against my thighs.
And then I lost it, breaking apart on his tongue, floating away on pleasure.
When he rose above me and sank deep a second time, I was limp as a ragdoll, but that was not something he allowed for long.
He gathered me close, held me tight against his body as we danced together.
I did not expect him to manage gentle after that first round, but he could.
Our bodies met softly and slid together.
The pleasure was softer, too—more tender.
We came together that time, not in haste but in a soft wave that crested and broke over both of us.
I did not expect him to have it in him to be sweet, but he gathered me close, tight in his arms. “You’re perfect, Ysa.
So perfect,” he whispered, and then: “Now sleep. I’m watching over you. ”