I run my hands down her soft, smooth skin, testing the weight of her breasts, plucking her ripe, taut nipple, and parting her thick, juicy thighs.
“Fuck, Shula, you’re wet. Is this for me?” I groan, licking her neck and sucking one plump mound into my mouth as I part her slick folds with the head of my cock.
“Yes, for you. Please, Thorne,” she begs.
But my sweet viyella doesn’t need to do that. I am hers. Wholly.
So, I show her.
I push into her—the tight muscles of her entrance grip me so hard I can’t get more than half my cock inside of her.
And I need more.
I need it all.
“Easy, Shula. Let me in,” I groan and kiss her deeply.
Then she relaxes around me. Her wet, hot opening quivers and I flex my hips, not stopping until I am buried to the hilt.
“Fuck, Thorne, that feels so good,” she moans, head back as I start to thrust in earnest, fucking her good and hard against the wall.
“You are the reason, Shula. S’incredible. Mine,” I growl, cupping her neck with one hand, her hip in the other as I use my magic to hold her in place.
The temperature is so hot that the water turns to steam before it hits us, and the sounds of our bodies slapping against one another fill the room like a symphony.
It feels so good. So right.
I kiss her again, and her sweet sex contracts around my length.
One, two, three more thrusts and she starts to come.
Her nails rake down my shoulders, sharp and claiming, and I welcome the pain like a benediction.
This is not submission.
This is answering.
Her body arches into mine, breathless and desperate, and I know—without doubt, without question—that I would follow her anywhere.
Over any precipice. Into any fire.
When release takes me, it is not gentle.
It tears through me with a roar that shakes the stone itself, my body bowing over hers as I press my mouth to the curve of her shoulder, right over the mark that binds us.
I feel her shudder beneath me, feel the way she tightens around me as if she is claiming me in return—pulling every drop of heat and essence from my body like she was made to do exactly this.
The zareth flares.
Not a flicker.
Not a spark.
A conflagration.
I taste it—ancient and holy and devastating—as the bond locks into place.
Not a trick. Not a stolen boon.
