He picked up the pace, his thumb grinding seamlessly against my clit while his fingers thrust deep, stretching me, wrecking me. I was dissolving. The gold and silver magic swirled around us, a storm of light. I wasn’t Lysa the healer anymore; I was a vessel of sensation, twisting and writhing, spreading myself wider to take more of him.
“Yes,” I sobbed, mindless. “Yes,yes—“
My climax shattered through my spine, bowing my body off the bed. I clamped down around his fingers, pulsing and screaming his name as the pleasure tore through me.
Fenrik rode out my orgasm, his hand working me through the aftershocks until I lay limp and panting, my skin flushed, my thighs trembling uncontrollably.
But he wasn’t done. The beast in his eyes flared brighter, scenting the air—scenting me.
“Sweet darkness,” he murmured, staring at the slick mess of my juices coating his hand. He brought his fingers to his mouth, licking me off his skin with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, his eyes locked on mine.
Then he moved lower. He pried my thighs even wider, burying his face between my legs. The first swipe of his tongue, broad and rough, against my hypersensitive flesh made me yelp. He groaned into me, the sound vibrating against my clit, and began to feast. He ate me with a starving, primal desperation, his tongue delving into the opening his fingers had stretched, lapping up the cream and the blood and the honey, drinking me down as if I were the only thing that could save him.
“Put it inside,” I begged, the words tearing from my throat raw and desperate. My hips lifted off the mattress, seeking him, an instinctive, wanton roll that made his breath hiss through his teeth.
“You have no idea what you are asking for,” he roughed out. He grabbed my knees, shoving them higher, forcing me wideruntil I felt utterly exposed, the cool air touching places that were wet and swollen for him.
He lined himself up, the broad, velvet head of his cock pressing against my slick entrance. He was impossible. Massive. The sight of him—thick, veined, and dripping with his own precum—made my breath hitch.
“Look at me, Lysa,” he said, his voice dropping into a dark, authoritative register that made my womb clench. He sounded like a lord instructing a novice, though his hands shook with the effort of holding back. “You’re too tight. I’m going to have to split you open to make this fit.”
“Will it?” I whispered, my eyes flicking down to where his hips hovered, then back to his burning gaze. “Will I take all of you?”
“You will take every inch because you belong to me,” he said. “You’re going to relax. You’re going to let me stretch you until you can’t feel anything but me.”
“Yes,” I breathed, entranced.
He pushed forward. Just the head.
A shock of sensation bolted through my spine: a burning, stinging fullness that felt like being impaled on hot iron. I cried out, my hands flying to grip his biceps, his muscles rock-hard under my palms.
“Breathe,” he said, though sweat beaded on his forehead. He held still, letting my body adjust to the invasion. “Take it. Accommodate me.”
“It’s so big,” I whimpered, feeling the impossible width of him demanding space my body didn’t have. But the pain was sweet, braided with a dark, heavy pleasure that made my toes curl. I pushed my hips up, instinctively trying to swallow him.
“Good girl,” he praised darkly. “Just like that.”
He began to sink into me in a slow, inexorable slide. He kept his eyes locked on mine. Inch by agonizing inch, he buried himself inside me. I felt my inner walls stretching, thinning, molding around the dense ridge of him. It was a feeling of absolute fullness, of being occupied so completely there was no room left for my own soul.
When he bottomed out, hitting the deepest part of me with a heavy thud, a broken sob tore from my throat. For a moment, we just breathed, me gasping, stretched to my limit, him groaning as my sheath clamped down around him, milking him. The magic flared, gold and silver sparks dancing over our joined skin, the friction of our bodies creating a literal electric current that zapped straight to my clitoris.
Then he moved.
He withdrew almost completely, leaving me aching and empty for a split second before slamming back in.
“Gods,” he roared, the sound vibrating against my breasts as he leaned down, pressing his chest to mine.
He set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping forward with bruising force. Every thrust ground his pelvis against my swollen clit, wringing cries of pleasure from me that I couldn’t stifle. Iclawed at his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin, desperate for purchase as he drove me into the mattress.
He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth sinking into the sensitive cord there, not breaking skin, but still claiming and marking. The pain of the bite mixed with the pleasure of his cock ramming into me, sending white-hot lightning through my nerves.
“Mine,” he grunted against my skin, his voice guttural. He pulled back to look at me, his face ravaged by ecstasy, sweat dripping from his hair onto my chest. He drove into me harder, faster, pounding into me as if trying to merge our very biology. “You are mine, Lysa.”
My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, my hips matching his feral rhythm. I was burning alive, my magic singing in my blood, consumed by the sheer force of him.
“I love you,” he choked out, slamming into me with a thrust that touched my soul. “Gods, Lysa, I love you.”
The friction was unbearable, a sweet, agonizing burn that spiraled tighter with every snap of his hips. He felt enormous, grinding against that deep, sacred bundle of nerves until my vision went white at the edges. I was weeping, thrashing, my heels digging into the small of his back to pull him deeper, deeper, needing him to fuse his very soul to mine.
