Page 137 of Given to the Black King

“Still,” he says against my skin.

“I know.”

“You cannot pull away yet.”

“I noticed.”

A flicker of satisfaction crosses the bond.

I lift my head. “You are pleased.”

“No.”

Amusement warms the bond despite his denial.

Despite the bite, the blood, and the fact that his body has locked us together, I laugh.

The movement squeezes the swell.

We both groan.

“Do not laugh,” he says.

“That may be the least reasonable command you have ever given me.”

He reaches for the water cup without separating us. One arm supports my shoulders while the other brings it to my mouth.

“Drink.”

“Bossy.”

“Mate.”

The old voice makes the lock pulse again.

He feels my response.

“So do I,” he says.

I drink all the water.

Then more.

Time passes strangely while we remain joined.

The fire settles. The bath stops steaming. His breathing slows. The venom heat moves through my body in waves, each one weaker than the last.

He tells me what he can feel.

My heartbeat without pain.

My soreness.

The strange new awareness of his own pleasure reflected inside my body.

I tell him what I feel.

His fear of hurting me. His astonishment that I stayed. The quiet in his jaw. The physical ache of holding his hips still while my body remains clamped around the swell.