He exhales, long and unraveling.
Then, his hips begin to move.
The first thrust is shallow, a careful retreat and return that tests the limits of my body’s welcome. Even that small motion drags a moan from somewhere so deep inside me, trapped between warm bliss and chilled timber.
“More,” I gasp, digging my heels into the small of his back, finding purchase on the smooth skin there.
He obeys with a groan that grinds through exposed teeth, pulling back further before sliding home in one long, devastating stroke. The fullness hits differently in motion—a deep, rolling pressure that lights every nerve from the inside, making my thighs clench and my spine bow away from the timber.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice wrecked.
I force my eyes open. Those black, bottomless hollows hold me with an attention so absolute, so devastatingly focused, it feels like being seen for the first time by the only eyes that ever mattered. It’s terrible and breathtaking, making my walls clench hard around him.
“I can feel you tightening,” he rasps against my mouth, his pace growing ragged, less controlled. “I can feel every part of you pulling me deeper.”
His rhythm builds like a tide, unhurried but relentless. Each thrust reaches deeper than the last, his massive frame pinning me to the wall while his arms bear every ounce of my weight. The muscles on his human side flex and cord with each roll of his hips, while on his other side, sinew pulls taut between ivory ribs in raw, hypnotic shifts.
I’m trembling, my thighs shaking around him, my hands grappling at the back of his neck. “We have to…have to move…”
He doesn’t question it.
Doesn’t even break stride.
His arms tighten beneath my thighs, pulling me off the wall and flush against his chest in one fluid motion. I feel every step reverberate through me—each one shifting him inside me, a deep, nudging pressure that makes my breath hitch and my fingers claw at his shoulders.
Three strides. Four. The stable blurs past in streaks of gold and shadow.
He lowers me onto the hayrick with a care that borders on worship, the dry stalks crackling beneath my back as his cock slides free. The sudden emptiness is a shock. A hollow, aching absence that makes me whimper and reach for him.
“Patience,” he murmurs, and the grind of that word through bone and throat sends a shiver straight to my core. “For once, I want to take my time.”
He sinks to his knees between my sprawled thighs, the knock of bone against stone clicking through the stable. His hands skim up the outside of my legs, bony fingertips dragging lines of fire along my skin before curling beneath my knees and spreading me open.
The cool air hits my slick, swollen heat, and I flinch. Not from cold, but from the first careful contact. Lips on one side, the smooth edge of teeth on the other, pressing a slow, open kiss against my center that makes my hips buck off the hay. His tongue follows—broad, hot, impossibly thorough—dragging a flat stroke from my entrance to the swollen bud at my apex.
I cry out, my hand flying to his skull, fingers digging into whatever black curls I can find there. He groans against me, the vibration buzzing straight into the nerve, and my vision whites at the edges.
He quickly finds his rhythm: a merciless, lapping devotion, his tongue circling and flicking with precision. Every time my thighs tense, every time my breath hitches higher, he adjusts.Slower when I’m close to shattering. Faster when I sag back from the edge.
“Stop teasing,” I pant, tugging at his curls, my heels digging into the hard planes of his back. “Please…”
He answers by sealing his mouth over my clit and sucking, hard, while two long fingers—one warm flesh, one smooth bone—slide inside me with a slick, curling thrust. The stretch is nothing compared to what I just took, but the angle, the beckoning press against that devastating spot…
My spine arches clean off the hay as I come undone. The sound that tears from my throat is raw, riding on a peak that goes on and on, each stroke of his fingers extending it by excruciating seconds.
He rises slowly, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth—bone catching on his lower lip—and stares down at me with an expression I’ve never seen on him.
Not hunger. Not smugness. Something quieter and infinitely more dangerous.
Pride.
“Deathisa lover,” he murmurs, his voice like gravel. “And one not even half bad.”
Before I can respond, he’s climbing over me, the hay compressing beneath his weight, his massive frame eclipsing the stable rafters until he’s all I see. He settles between my trembling thighs with a slick, blunt press at my entrance.
He slides into me easily. One long stroke, my mouth falling open on a soundless cry. He swallows it with a kiss, hunching low to reach me, his spine curving into a great bow that changes the angle of his hips. The thrusts turn shallow this way—short, rocking motions that keep him buried deep while his tongue tangles with mine. I taste myself on him, salt and musk, and the intimacy of it makes something crack open behind my ribs.
He breaks the kiss to breathe, his forehead dropping beside mine, and I feel the nudge of his jaw against my cheek. Then he finds my hand where it grips the hay and lifts it, pressing my palm flat against the exposed ribs on his side.
