Page 132 of Given to the Black King

“Good.”

He returns to me before the first tremors end.

The second builds on top of the first. Tongue, fingers, the roughness of his jaw, his scent thick in the hot room. I push at his head and pull him closer in the same breath.

He knows the difference because he watches, not because my body has given him permission.

He works me until I come again with both hands locked around the bases of his horns and his name breaking apart in my mouth.

When he rises, his face is wet from me.

Both fangs are bare.

His cock is hard against his stomach, heavy and flushed dark. The broad crown shines with thick slickness. The raised ring beneath it is pronounced. The twin ridges along the underside stand hard beneath the skin. At the root, the muscular flare has already begun to swell.

I reach for him.

He catches my hand.

“Not yet.”

“You have waited long enough.”

“I have waited a hundred years. I can wait until you are ready.”

“I am ready.”

“For me.” His hand slides between my legs, gathering the wetness there. “Not only the rite.”

I take his wrist and guide his slick fingers over his cock.

“Then prepare me.”

His eyes close for one second.

He works three fingers inside me again, slowly. He spreads them, presses deep, and circles my clit until the muscles loosen around the stretch.

Oil waits beside the bed. He works it over me, then strokes more along his whole length until both of us are slick enough for what comes next.

When I can take the width of his hand without pain, he withdraws and moves over me.

The size of him blocks the fire. Horns. Shoulders. Fangs. Blood-washed scars. Claws buried in the furs beside my head.

Serathi nursery tales give monsters hunger and women terror. None ever described this: his whole body shaking because I said yes.

He positions himself against me.

“Still yours?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Still chosen?”

“Yes.”

He presses in.

The flare stretches me. The ring catches. He rocks shallowly until my body opens around him.