Page 155 of Given to the Black King

“Show me.”

He covers my hand with his and guides it.

Slower over the head.

More pressure beneath it.

Two fingers tracing the hard lines underneath instead of squeezing the whole shaft.

The sensation comes through him and into me. I understand what his body wants without mistaking the knowledge for permission because his hand is still on mine, choosing every movement.

“There,” he says.

I repeat it.

His forehead drops against mine.

He puts two fingers inside me.

Slow. Deliberate. No need to rush preparation because no predator is chasing and no battle waits below.

I feel each stroke from my body and from his hand. He feels the way my muscles soften around him and the ache in his own fingers when I tighten.

“Can you send only one thing?” I ask.

“What?”

“Your pleasure. Not the movement. Not the rest.”

His brow furrows.

He closes his eyes.

For a moment, the bond goes quiet enough that I hear the wind at the shutters.

Then his warmth appears low in my body.

The slow pleasure of my hand moving over the ridges enters me without the pressure of a cock in my palm. It settles between my legs as though my body has borrowed his nerves.

I gasp.

His eyes open.

“Again?”

“Yes.”

I stroke him. He sends the sensation back.

My cunt tightens around his fingers.

He feels that and nearly loses the careful separation.

The bond floods with both bodies at once.

We stop, laughing and breathless.

“That requires practice,” I say.