Page 133 of Given to the Black King

When the head slips inside, I gasp.

He stops.

“Continue.”

The raised band comes next. The two ridges drag through me, firm and unmistakable. He moves in by inches until the shaft fills what his hand prepared.

The swelling at his base presses broad and hard at my entrance.

He does not force the last of himself in.

He waits.

I wrap one leg high around his back and pull.

His hips meet mine.

The fullness is enormous.

Neither of us speaks.

He stays there, chest heaving, jaw clenched, claws sunk into the furs.

I lift my hips.

“Move.”

He pulls back slowly.

The ring catches at my entrance. The underside scrapes deep.

The first thrust is controlled.

The second harder.

By the fourth, the restraint begins to fail.

His mouth drops to my shoulder. Not the throat. The old mark. His back teeth hold it while his hips drive into me.

I grip his shoulders and take every stroke.

He fills me on the inward drive. His shape makes the retreat almost as intense as the thrust. His base swells harder with every movement, thickening where our bodies meet.

“More.”

His hand closes in my hair and turns my head.

My throat lies open.

He freezes.

The two fangs hover above the side of my neck.

He does not choose the easiest place. He moves his hand beneath my head and turns me farther, exposing the thick muscle above my collarbone and behind the main pulse line.

His thumb presses lightly beside the artery, checking the path.

His thumb checks the artery twice.