He lifts me slightly, positioning himself, and then pulls me down in one brutal thrust, filling me completely as he digs his fingers into my flesh. I start to pant, hearing voices whisper near me, but that’s impossible. We are alone, there can’t be anyone close by.
We both groan at the sensation—the heat of the water amplifying everything, the fairy magic singing through our veins, the perfect stretch and fullness of our bodies joining. It's overwhelming, devastating, exactly what I need.
"Ride my cock like a good Shadow Lady," he demands, hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. "Show me how desperate you are."
I move, rolling my hips in a rhythm that makes us both gasp. The water splashes around us as I take him deeper, harder, chasing the pleasure building in my core. The voices, the moans, I know I am not making it up, there are fae around us, near us, hidden and watching.
"That's it," he growls, one hand tangling in my hair to pull my head back. "Fuck me. Use me. Take what you need."
His other hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit and circling with maddening pressure. The combination of his cock stretching me, his fingers working that sensitive bundle of nerves, the heated water caressing every inch of exposed skin—it's too much. My skin feels hypersensitive, my magic drums in my ears, heat and Kaan’s shadows tingling my skin.
"I'm going to come," I gasp.
"Not yet." His fingers still. "You don't come until I say."
"Kaan—"
"Beg for it." His hips thrust up hard, and I cry out. "Beg me to let you come on my cock like a good little whore."
The words should horrify me. Instead, they make me clench around him, my body betraying exactly how much his filthy mouth affects me.
But that's when I hear it—a faint rustle in the undergrowth. A quickly stifled gasp that's distinctly female.
I freeze certain this time that we have company, but Kaan's fingers resume their circling, relentless. "Don't stop," he commands.
"Someone's watching," I whisper, torn between shame and the dark thrill shooting through me.
His eyes meet mine, dark and knowing. "I know. I can sense at least three of them." His thumb presses harder against my clit. "Let them watch. Let them see how the empress of light rides the Shadow Lord's cock. Let them see you fall apart."
Another rustle, closer this time. Then another from a different direction. They're surrounding us, these voyeuristic Fae, drawn by the scent of sex and magic and the spectacle we're making.
"They're stroking themselves," Kaan murmurs against my ear, and gods help me, I can feel it now too—the spike of arousal in the air, the sound of ragged breathing barely concealed by the trees. "Watching you bounce on my cock and wishing they could trade places with me."
Heat floods through me at the image. I'm moving again despite myself, riding him harder, the knowledge that we have an audience making me wetter than I've ever been.
"That's my girl," he praises, and the approval in his voice makes me moan. "You love this, don't you? Love knowing they're watching you get fucked. Love showing them who you belong to."
"Yes," I gasp, beyond shame, beyond anything but the desperate need for release.
"Then come," he commands. "Come on my cock while they watch."
The words, the knowledge of our audience, his fingers working my clit with deep care—it's too much. The orgasmbuilds at the base of my spine, coiling tighter and tighter until I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel.
"Come," he commands again, and it's like he's pulled a trigger.
I shatter.
The pleasure detonates through me, white-hot and devastating. My inner walls clench around him, pulsing, milking him as the climax tears through me. It's not just in my core—it's everywhere. In my fingertips, my toes, behind my eyes. The fairy dust amplifies everything until I'm drowning in sensation, lost in a sea of ecstasy that feels like it might actually kill me.
My thighs shake uncontrollably. My pussy spasms around his cock, each contraction sending fresh sparks of pleasure radiating outward. I can feel myself gushing, soaking him, the wet sounds obscene as he keeps moving inside me, prolonging it, dragging it out until I'm sobbing.
"That's it," he growls, his voice rough with his own need. "Fuck—you're clenching so tight?—"
His rhythm stutters, becomes erratic, and then he's groaning my name against my throat, his cock pulsing as he spills inside me. I feel the heat of it, the fullness, and impossibly, it triggers another smaller wave of pleasure that makes me whimper.
We stay like that for long moments, both trembling violently, the water lapping gently around us. My heart is racing so hard I can feel it in my throat. Every nerve ending is still firing, oversensitive and raw. I can barely process the sounds around us—the rustling in the undergrowth, the soft sighs and whispered conversations as our audience disperses, presumably satisfied by the show.
I feel drained. Destroyed. Remade. Like he's reached inside me and rearranged something fundamental.
