25. Manipul（ate） #3
I pressed upward, pushing, tugging roughly at his hair with my dagger still in my fist. He pinned me down against the bed with his cock and mouth, fingers tangling in my messy braid.
He made an unholy sound as he ripped his mouth away, thrusting forward with one powerful lunge, seating his throbbing shaft fully inside of me.
“Thou art taking me so splendidly,” he praised softly.
I yanked at his silky curls with growing desperation. He pulled back and drove into me harder.
Tugging at my braid in rhythm to his thrusts, he pushed deeper. Gently he dragged his rough thumbs over my cheekbones, mapping my old wounds.
“Syxzal, thou art . . . everything.” Tingles exploded as his magic caressed my silver scar.
With a tormented sound, he cradled my face, kissing me tenderly like I was the most precious thing in the world. Gusts of wind fluttered across my nipples. Pleasure sparked down my chest. He licked into my open mouth, our breaths mingling.
I tipped over the edge again, clenching around his burning size, and he swallowed my orgasmic cries with his mouth.
“Do thou know?” he panted. “Thou art the ideal—the most perfect person to ever exist . . . No one is like thee, and no one could ever match your fire.” His hips bucked, and he pressed deep, devouring my mouth, warmth pulsing between us as he came.
Our chests were pressed together. He lay on top of me, our hearts beating wildly in tandem.
His face blurred as my eyes filled with tears.
He lifted himself up. Again he grabbed my face with both of his hands. He pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead.
“Art thou okay, beautiful?” His eyes were stunning, the color of clouds reflecting a rainbow of sunlight. They brimmed with uncharacteristic benevolence.
I nodded, unable to speak, trying desperately to hold my emotions back.
Again he kissed my forehead softly, the tip of my nose, the very top of my cupid’s bow, my fluttering eyelashes. He repeated the path, peppering my face with endless gentle kisses.
Reverently he dragged his hands through my tangled hair. His expression was nothing short of distraught.
“Thou art more precious than any jewel, my sweet Zora,” he said, nodding, like he meant it. “Nothing in all Antichthon holds a candle to thee.”
I couldn’t speak around the lump in my throat.
He brushed his warm lips across the corners of my eyes. “I shall clean thee up.”
I didn’t know what to do with this dangerous man worshipping me with more tenderness than anyone ever had. No one had ever . . . touched me like him. No one had ever spoken to me so sweetly.
Moisture filled my vision.
He was being so . . . earnest.
It wasn’t fair.
Hastily I wiped away a tear before it could fall down my cheek and give me away.
Voices shouted from the hangar, and I tried to sit up, but he gently pushed me back down. “Careful. Let me take care of thee . . . Thou deserve to be worshipped.”
“We should see what’s happening,” I said.
He shook his head. “No—we should not.” Softly tracing circles over my hips, he gingerly turned me so I lay back with my head on the pillows. I let him position me.
“That’s my precious girl,” he said quietly. “So fucking good.”
He stared at my face, eyes shining with delight as he slowly climbed on top of the bed and slid lower. He spoke with intense reverence, like he was referring to something beyond sex.
“I thought you were getting a towel to clean up.” I tried to hide a sniffle.
Voices echoed louder in the hall.
Tarantula smiled contentedly as he settled between my legs. “My fair, valiant Knight—I do not need one to take care of thee.” He lapped, cleaning me with his tongue, bringing my body back up to impossible heights.
He pressed two long fingers into my core, then a third as he sucked harder, applying more pressure. His other hand plucked at my nipples.
I tried to fight it, but somehow another orgasm crested, breaking over me in endless waves.
He rested his chin on my pelvis, watching my face with hooded, smoldering eyes as I shivered through the ecstasy, my inner muscles throbbing.
The bottom of his face gleamed, covered in my juices and . . . blood?
He smiled; his canines extended, razor-sharp.
Silver steamed off his curls like a debased halo. Gaze molten, he tipped his head down, the whites visible beneath his pale irises. Evil eyes.
Someone yelled something outside, and it sounded like “new threat from the Empire.” My instincts screamed at me to act. This was the Marshal’s plan. She’d said to go to her when events unfolded.
It was time.
Eyes watering from pleasure, I stared at the knife still clutched in my fist, thoughts racing.
I should stab him through the spine.
He’ll never see it coming.
I could end this right now.
All of it.
Do it, Zora.
Do it quickly.
He lowered his head and groaned into my core, eating me out with renewed desperation. Tears streaked down my face. Flipping the dagger over, I gripped the blade tightly, muttered a prayer to the old god for strength, and slammed the hilt across his temple with everything I had.
He slumped, unconscious.
For the quest.