He pressed the head of his cock to the entrance of me.
He looked in my eyes. “Will you have me?”
I said, “Yes. Please.”
He eased in by degrees.
The width of him was shocking. The head stretched me, and I made a noise, not quite pain, not quite pleasure, but he waited. He let me adjust. He licked the sweat from my brow, then my cheek, and then, when I was ready, he pushed in further.
The length of him filled me. Every inch that entered was a seal, a promise, a thing the contract wrote into my flesh. When he was fully inside, when his hips pressed to my ass, I felt, for the first time, the possibility of being not just had, but changed.
He moved.
Not fast, not hard, not yet. The movement was reverent. Every withdrawal measured, every return to the depth of medeliberate, paced, letting my body learn the size and shape of him.
He fucked me as if writing a book.
Each thrust a sentence. Each movement another clause. I could feel the contract being sealed in my body, each motion of his cock a signature. I wanted more. I wanted the power of it.
“Harder,” I said. “Please.”
He obliged.
He drove in, once, hard enough to slap my ass to the stone. The sound echoed in the chamber. The heat of him, the force of him, the power of him—every sense, every nerve, was alive.
He fucked me, now, as a lord fucks a thing he is making his own.
Hands at my shoulders, then at my wrists, pinning them to the stone above my head, then at my hips, drawing me down onto the cock, then up at my face, my jaw, my open mouth. He kissed me, tongue deep, teeth scraping my lip.
I saw myself through his eyes.
My eyes were not blue anymore. They were ringed, at the iris, with a molten halo. The reflection in his eyes told me it was true.
I was beautiful.
He fucked me, and the well fucked me, and the whole realm pressed in. The light from the white cracks in his skin was so intense I could not look at anything but the line of his jaw, the arch of his nose, the eyes so wide and hungry and proud.
I came, once, quick and hard, clenching on him, and he fucked through it without breaking rhythm. The next one gathered as a coil, a spiral, a force that started at my toes and climbed up my legs, through my pelvis, up my back, and into my arms, my neck, my head.
He pressed his palm to the sigil at my breastbone.
He said, “Come for me again.”
I did.
It started at my center, but it did not stay there. The orgasm spread through my whole body, every muscle, every nerve, every part of me. I arched off the stone, my head thrown back, my mouth open wide, and the cry that left me was the sound of a woman being unmade and remade at the same time.
He fucked me through it, faster, harder, his hands on my hips holding me to him so I could not shy away from the force of the pleasure.
He came, then.
No roar. No shout. A moan unlike anything I had heard came from him—long, low, wordless, as if every contract he had ever signed in the history of his kind had been fulfilled at once. The white from his cracks went supernova. The well behind him flashed, once, so bright the world vanished.
When the world came back, I was on the stone, the gold cooling, the chamber dimmer. The contract at my wrist was fused to the bone, the sigil at my breastbone a physical thing, raised above the skin, warm to the touch.
He was above me, arms shaking, forehead pressed to my shoulder.
He lifted his face. The cracks had not closed; they glowed steady, clean.
