He flinched with a hiss. "I should kill you now," he snarled, voice cracking when another finger slipped inside.
But he didn't move.
Couldn't.
Because he wanted to know what she thought she knew—needed to know exactly how she thought she was going to ruin him.
She nodded, the preposterous thing. "You should," she murmured. "But then… you'll always wonder what it could've been like…"
Fingers flexing around her throat, Thalos' pulse hammered at his gills. Unable to draw a breath, frozen in place as she explored. And then, "You know nothing," he snapped, but his hips rolled. Flexing against that gentle touch.
But when her digits pressed deeper, buried to her knuckles, a ragged sound escaped his lips. Shameful. Shocked and helpless but to yield to her exploration.
Of his vent.
It was taboo.
Obscene.
Lewd in a way he couldn't explain to feel her knuckles inside him. Dainty little fingers wrapped around his girth. Inside. Where no one had ever dared touch before.
Pelagorn mated in beautiful choreography. Dances in the tide. Entwined bodies, rippling scales, slits aligned, bodies pressed.
It was never…
… this.
Never inside.
But webbed fingers—notably absent claws—wrapped around his girth and pulled. Coaxing him out with disgusting, beseeching pulls.
His cock burst forth.
Thick.
Already achingly swollen.
Leaking syrupy pulses into the tide.
Ridged with bulging pearls, flushed and engorged with need.
And his breath. It stuttered in his chest. Bubbles pressed through clenched teeth when she shifted her grip and worked him properly. Pumping him with long, greedy strokes. One hand twisting around his head, while the other… the other pressed back inside. Rolling his heavy, tender balls, before she drew those out too.
Spines flared, shocked right down to the tip of his fluke, Thalos went catatonic.
Pure, scandalized reflex.
Fins spread to catch the current, his chromatic scales rippled with a wave of blazing, pristine color. His every instinct screaming at him to strike, defend.
His balls flexed in her palm.
Cock twisting in her grip, seeking warmth. Friction. Heat.
Begging for more.
Lips parted, a tiny sound escaped her, then. Fascination, perhaps. Morbid curiosity to see the difference between trench-filth and true royalty. She stroked. Root to tip. Twisting around his swollen end, it was a deliberate action. Practiced. One that saw her palm drag across his pearls.
As if she knew.
