I lined my cock up with her slick entrance and pressed in, watching her body yield to me—her flesh parting, stretching, swallowing me inch by inch. Her walls gripped me, molten silk contracting around every vein and ridge. When the thick knot at my base nudged against her, I held there, letting her feel how it pulsed with need, how it would lock us together when I finally gave it to her. Her eyes, wild blue rings around black pools, locked onto mine as her breath caught.
I withdrew almost completely before sinking back in, savoring the wet sound of her taking me. My hand found her throat—not squeezing, just feeling her pulse hammer against my palm while my other hand lifted her ass, tilting her so I could drive deeper. When I bottomed out again, she raked her nails down my back hard enough to draw blood, her cunt clenching around me in perfect rhythm.
"The way you take me," I growled against her ear, teeth grazing the shell. "Like your body was carved out just for this cock." I rolled my hips in a slow figure eight that made her gasp and arch. Her wetness coated us both, the scent of her arousal making my head swim. "Every inch of you dripping for me."
"Please," she whimpered, her thighs trembling against my sides. "I need—I need?—"
I stared at her, memorizing every line, every freckle and bruise and bead of sweat. "You're going to have it," I said. "It's yours. I'm yours." I kissed her, slow and deep, letting her taste herself on my tongue.Thrusting into her mouth languidly, in a way that mimicked my cock.
I kept at her, letting the friction build, the heat rising between us in a steady, perfect spiral. Every time I thought she was spent, she fired again—hips rolling up, hands yanking at my hair, teeth on my shoulder, the kind of want that never died even after the body begged for mercy. I loved it. I wanted to live in the space between her gasps and curses, the way she shuddered every time my knot pressed against the entrance and then slid just inside.
She was slick everywhere—skin to skin, sweat matting her hair to her face, a wet sheen on her chest that made her freckles pop. I wanted to cover her in it, to mark her in every way a body could be marked. So I did. I fucked her through the mattress, slow and ruthless, until she was clawing for air and the headboard rattled against the wall. When I felt her start to come again, I pressed all the way in, letting her feel the full, brutal stretch of the knot, and just held her there, deep as I could go.
She broke. She fucking shattered—arched up off the bed, back bowed, mouth open in a scream that probably woke every demon in a mile radius. Her cunt clenched so hard I saw stars, and in that moment, I let the last bit of control go and came inside her, every pulse of it a promise, a seal, a surrender.We stayed locked together, shaking and gasping, until the aftershocks faded and the sweat cooled on our skin.
I almost couldn’t move, but I wanted to see her face, so I rolled us to the side, keeping us tied together. She gave a low, exhausted moan, then started laughing, a wild, delirious sound that made my chest ache.
“That was…” she started, but the words fell apart. “You’re going to actually kill me one of these days, Samiel.”
I kissed her forehead, careful, then her eyelids, then the tip of her nose. “No,” I said, “I’ll just fuck you back to life if I do.”
She giggled, then winced, legs trembling as she tried to shift. “I think I’m stuck,” she said, which was technically true—my knot still anchored us, and every little twitch sent a new spark up my spine. I tried to shift and failed, so I just let myself collapse on her, the full weight of my body draped over hers, sweat making us both slick as raw steak. I could still feel the knot, the way it pulsed inside her, a living fist clamped tight to her want, keeping us fused together even though every muscle in my body was screaming for sleep. Annie’s breath came shallow, a laugh and a gasp tangled up, and she reached behind to slap my ass, weak but proud.
“I’m going to need so many electrolytes,” she muttered. “And an ice pack. Possibly a wheelchair.”
I laughed, but my voice was ruined—just a scrape of sound. “I’ll carry you anywhere you want to go. But you’re not moving until I say you can.”
She wiggled her hips, which sent a shockwave up my spine and nearly made me see double. “Don’t think I can’t get up by myself, demon. I’ll drag you through the house like a dead dog.”
I bit her shoulder, lazy and lingering, then nuzzled the mark I’d made. “Try it.”
The knot loosened with a soft, viscous pop, and I slid out of her, rolling to the side and pulling her with me in the samemotion so she landed on my chest, skin to skin. She laughed again, this time breathless but content, and rested her cheek right over my heart, her hair a wild halo between us.
We lay there, a tangle of legs, sweat, and sheets, for a long time. I stroked her spine, letting my claws trace the heat map of every bruise and scratch, while she idly played with the veins on my forearm, tapping out a rhythm I didn’t know.
When the last of the aftershocks faded, she rolled off, stretched like a cat, and stared up at the ceiling with the dazed pride of a marathoner who’d just set a personal record and wasn’t sure if she’d ever walk again.
“If you ever wanted to murder me,” she said, “that would have been the time. I wouldn’t have even noticed.”
I dragged a hand across my face, trying to catch up with her. “I’m not done with you yet.”
She snorted. “You say that, but I think your cock’s going to need CPR.”
I propped myself up on one elbow, damp hair sticking to my face, and looked at her—really looked at her. The marks on her chest, the bite prints on her neck, the line of my claws down her side, raw and red and healing already. She met my gaze, blue eyes rimmed black with mascara and want.
“What?” she said, voice soft.
“I just—” I stopped. The words didn’t come easy. “I like seeing you like this.”
She raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.
I tried again. “I’ve never seen anyone who looked better when they were ruined. You make destruction look like art.”
She smiled, slow and bright, and for a second I thought she might laugh it off, but she didn’t. She sat up, pulled her knees to her chest, then slid off the bed and padded to the bathroom, not bothering with anything like a robe or towel.
She left the door open. I watched her in the mirror, the way her body caught the light and refracted it in a hundred shades of bruised and perfect. She didn't look at herself—she looked at me, every time, like she wanted me to see her as she was, not as what she thought she should be. I followed, unable to stay away, and stepped into the shower with her, the spray hot and stinging against my skin. The water hit her marks, and she hissed, but didn't flinch, just braced her hands against my chest and let me wash her. I used my claws like a loofah, scrubbing her scalp, her back, the insides of her thighs, everywhere I'd left a mark. She let me do it, never looking away.
When we were clean, she wrapped a towel around her hair and shook herself off like a dog, then raided my closet for something to wear. She picked a T-shirt first—a black one, vintage and thinned with age, the words "HELL'S KITCHEN" across the chest in cracked red type. But then she found the pajama set I'd ordered, hoping she’d stay—black, soft as sin, trimmed with lace at the hem and sleeves.
