Page 150 of Given to the Black King

One hooks beneath the lacing at her knee and cuts it. The black skirt falls open.

Iona inhales.

I lift her from the damaged arm and turn her over the throne seat.

Her palms strike black stone polished by decades of judgments.

The bond carries her shock, then her delight.

“Here?” she asks.

I push the skirt to her waist. “Here.”

My fingers find her wet already.

She looks back over one shoulder.

“Useful?”

I put two fingers inside her.

Her answer becomes a gasp.

There is no long preparation. She is open from wanting and still tender enough that I take care with the third finger. My thumb works her clit while her hips press back against my hand.

“More.”

I free my cock.

I drag the slick head through her wetness. The ring catches at her entrance.

She braces on the throne.

I press inside in one slow drive, giving her all of me before stopping with my base hard against her.

Her head drops.

“Still?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I grip her hips.

Then I take her fast.

The throne does not move. I built it from stone because I expected enemies, not this.

My hips strike her. Every retreat drags hard through her. The bond gives me the exact flash of pleasure my shape produces and gives her the rough satisfaction in my body as I watch my mate take me over the seat of judgment.

She reaches back and grabs one horn.

I lose the last of my rhythm.

My claws gouge the stone beside her hands.

She comes first, quick and hard, biting down on her own wrist to keep the sound inside the hall.

The bond throws the climax through me.