“Lift,” he instructs, pulling me up a fraction with one hand on my hip.
“There. That’s it,” he growls.
His voice is like warm silk against my sensitive skin.
My heart is thudding now, faster than it should, but I can’t slow it down.
I don’t want to.
Because this? This is the feeling I’ve been chasing my whole life without knowing it.
The delicious ache of anticipation.
The trembling edge of surrender.
The terrifying, exultant certainty that I am right where I belong.
Then I feel it—him.
His blunt, heated tip presses against me, demanding entrance.
My breath catches.
My body clenches.
And when he finally pushes in, slow but unyielding, the stretch steals the very air from my lungs.
God.
He’s bigger.
Hotter.
More.
My muscles tighten around him instinctively, trying to make space, to adjust, but in this position—on my belly, thighs spread, hips angled just so—I can only take what he gives.
And what he gives is more than I’ve ever known.
It burns.
Oh God, it burns so good.
A whimper breaks from my lips, helpless and wanton and loud enough for him to hear.
“Not a God, little Shula,” he growls beside my ear, voice thick with heat and pride. “A Demon. Your Demon.”
His breath singes the shell of my ear as his arms cage me in, massive and unrelenting, and then—he asks.
“Can I move now, Shula? Can I make you come?”
I gasp and nod.
Because yes, I want that. I want it so damn bad.
“Please,” I beg shamelessly.
Only then—after I give permission—does he start to move.
