39. Isolde #2
One hand cradling the back of her head against his neck, Bastian slipped the other between her legs.
She cried out as his fingers slid through the wetness there, dragging it upward to moisten her clit.
He rubbed a few tight circles around the aching bundle of nerves, and then plunged two fingers deep inside her.
The combination of Bastian’s blood on her tongue and his fingers curling against her inner walls drove Isolde straight to the edge. She whimpered against his throat, still swallowing him greedily down.
“That’s it. Take what you need,” Bastian said, the words low and tight with his own arousal. He let out a deep moan as Isolde lapped at his neck, sucking hard against the punctures her fangs had made. “Good girl.”
Right as he said those words, his thumb pressed against her clit. Pleasure exploded through Isolde, her climax taking her with such force that she nearly convulsed with it.
Isolde withdrew her fangs from Bastian’s neck, having just enough presence of mind remaining to worry about hurting him.
Pleasure rolled through her, waves and waves and waves of it, but Bastian didn’t let up.
His fingers only increased their pace, wringing the orgasm out of her as she shuddered against his skin.
“Bastian,” she gasped, a second climax already mounting as he continued to fuck her with his fingers. “Bastian, I need you.”
His fingers stilled within her, but didn’t withdraw. “Use your words, moonbeam,” he chided, pulling back to look at her. As he did, his gaze dropped to her mouth, his pupils blown wide. “How do you need me?”
“Inside me,” she begged, reaching for the buttons of his trousers. “I want you inside me.”
Bastian had his pants off before Isolde could blink. She heard the button clatter to the floor and roll beneath the workbench. As he stood before Isolde, he curled his fist around his hard, dripping cock and stroked it once, twice.
Slowly, he stepped toward Isolde. He reached for her—for the leather sheaths still strapped around her thighs. He curled his fingers beneath the straps, and with a sharp yank, used them to haul Isolde to the edge of the workbench.
Moisture flooded between Isolde’s thighs at the move. At the pure dominance of it.
The tip of his cock brushed against her entrance—just barely.
“ Please, Bastian,” Isolde whimpered when he didn’t press inside.
He curled one hand around the back of her neck, dragging her up to press their foreheads together. “You’re mine, Isolde.”
“Yes,” she panted, winding her legs around his waist.
She tried to drag him into her with her heels at the small of his back, but he pulled against her, resisting.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I’m yours,” Isolde vowed.
“You’re mine,” Bastian repeated, and sheathed himself inside her.
Isolde cried out, her moan twining with Bastian’s as he seated himself to the hilt.
He was big, his cock stretching her to the edge of pain, reaching depths of her that no human had ever touched.
He paused for a moment, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips, his breath coming in desperate pants against Isolde’s lips.
He was practically trembling with restraint, the muscles of his back straining beneath Isolde’s hands.
She rolled her hips, too breathless to beg him to move, and he obliged. He withdrew, all the way to the tip, then slammed back home.
“Say it again,” he groaned. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.” Isolde could do nothing but cling to him as he set a slow, languid rhythm. “I’m yours, Bastian.” Thrust . “I’m yours.” Thrust. “ Fuck, I’m yours.”
“That’s right,” Bastian growled, increasing his pace. He dropped his mouth to hers, stealing a kiss. “You’re mine. Not some human bastard’s, whose blood isn’t worthy of you. Mine .”
“Yes,” Isolde moaned. “ Fuck yes.”
Bastian’s thrusts sped up, verging on wild.
He pressed Isolde back onto the workbench, to the same position they’d been in the night they met, and at that new angle…
he was everywhere. His cock stretched her further, pushing her over that threshold of pain until the burn of every thrust mingled with pleasure.
Her name was like music from his lips as he fucked her, repeated over and over with the words: you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine.
Isolde’s climax built and built, coiling inside her with every thrust of Bastian’s hips.
His grip on her waist tightened until she felt sure she’d have bruises when they were done, and she dug her fingernails into his shoulders in turn.
Isolde watched his face, inches from hers, memorizing the way it crumpled with desperation, with devastation, as they barreled toward their release together.
When Isolde came, she screamed Bastian’s name, and he followed her over the edge. His hips kept churning as he spilled himself inside her, and every hot pulse of his seed prolonged her climax, wringing it out of her until she barely remembered her own name.
She remembered his, though.
And as Bastian collapsed over top of her, burying his face in her hair, he whispered one last time, “You’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” Isolde promised.