I started to move. Slow at first, just a slight roll of my hips. Testing what hurt, what felt good, what made his claws dig into my skin. The pain in my ribs flared with each movement, but I ignored it.
Endorphins and adrenaline and sheer stubbornness were a hell of a drug.
The rhythm built gradually. Up and down, taking him deep then almost releasing. His cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside me, the ridges and textures creating friction that had me gasping. That fleshy tip kept moving, seeking, finding places that made my vision blur.
His hands guided my hips, helping me find the angle that worked best. When I leaned forward slightly, he hit something inside me that made my toes curl.
There. Right there.
I increased the pace, chasing that sensation. My hands braced on his shoulders, using him for leverage. Sweat slicked my skin despite the cooling night air. Every breath came hard, ragged.
His mouth found my throat. Lips and tongue and the careful press of fangs. He didn't bite, just held the threat there, a reminder of what he was. What I was letting claim me.
The thought sent heat flooding through me. Claimed. Marked. His.
No. Not his.
This was just sex. Just scratching an itch that had been building for weeks. Nothing more.
His tail shifted, the tip sliding between us. It found my clit with unerring accuracy, circled once, and I nearly came apart.
"Fuck," I gasped.
He did it again. Pressure and friction and the skilled movement of something designed for this. My inner muscles started to flutter, irregular spasms that signaled how close I was.
Not yet. I wasn't ready for this to end.
I changed the angle, took him deeper. The movement jarred my injuries, and pain lanced through me, bright and sharp. I hissed, faltered.
His hands steadied me immediately. "This is hurting you."
"No."
"You’ll open your wounds."
"I don't care." I rolled my hips, taking him to the hilt. The pleasure drowned out the pain, made it irrelevant. "Don't you dare stop."
Something shifted in his expression. The careful control cracked, splintered. His hands tightened on my hips, claws pricking my skin. Not breaking it, just the promise of what those claws could do.
He thrust up.
The movement drove him impossibly deeper. I cried out, the sound echoing off cave walls. He did it again, meeting my downward motion with his upward thrust. The rhythm turned brutal, desperate, all pretense of gentleness abandoned.
His wings spread, mantling around us. Creating a private world where only we existed. His scent surrounded me, smoke and stone and male arousal. It filled my lungs with each gasping breath, made my head spin.
"Kyvara," he growled against my throat. "Mine."
The word should bother me. Should make me pull away, establish boundaries, remind him this was just physical.
Instead, it sent pleasure spiking through me. Sharp and undeniable.
His tail worked my clit with relentless precision. Circling, pressing, the pressure building with each stroke. Inside, his cock hit that perfect spot with every thrust, the fleshy tip curling to increase the sensation.
Too much. It was too much.
The orgasm built at the base of my spine, coiling tighter with each movement. My inner walls started to clench rhythmically, gripping him, trying to pull him deeper even though there was nowhere left to go.
His fangs scraped my throat. Not biting, just pressure. A claim without breaking skin.
