His amber eyes are molten.
"I am going to make you come on my tongue," he says. "And then I am going to make you come on my cock. And then I am going to knot you so deeply you will feel me for days."
"Jesus Christ."
"Do you consent?"
"Yes. God, yes."
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue against my clit is electric.
I arch off the bed, my bandaged hands fisting in the sheets, a broken moan tearing from my throat. He doesn't stop. He licks and sucks and devours me with the same methodical precision he uses for everything else, his massive hands holding my thighs open, his wings creating a humid, golden-lit cage around us.
The orgasm hits me like a freight train.
I come hard, my entire body convulsing, my pussy clenching around nothing, desperate and empty and aching.
He doesn't give me time to recover.
He moves up my body, his cock—thick and ridged and absolutely massive—pressing against my entrance. The head is slick with pre-cum. The ridges along the shaft are pronounced, designed to stretch and fill and claim.
"Look at me," he says.
I look at him.
His amber veins are glowing so brightly they're almost white.
"I love you," he says. "I have loved you since the moment you climbed onto that massage table and told me to stop being difficult. I will love you until the stone claims me permanently. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Good."
He pushes inside.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Stretching me around his cock with agonizing precision.
The ridges catch on my inner walls, sending shockwaves of pleasure through my core. The heat is overwhelming—molten, volcanic, threatening to burn me from the inside out.
When he's fully seated, his knot pressing against my entrance, he stops.
His entire body is trembling.
"You are mine," he says.
"Yes."
"You will always be mine."
"Yes."
"And I am yours."
