Page 41 of Given to the Black King

My legs slide down his shoulders. I am wet, shaking, and half dressed on top of a map of my own country.

Torgan rises.

His mouth shines.

The fangs are wet too, though they never touched me.

The sight makes me clench around nothing.

He smells that.

“Enough,” he says.

“No.”

“Iona.”

“You set the boundary at penetration.” I reach for his belt. “I have not agreed that you are finished.”

His hand closes over mine.

“You do not owe me balance.”

“I know.”

I pull the buckle free.

His grip tightens. Not stopping me. Holding on.

The leather opens. I push his trousers down far enough to free him.

For a moment I only stare.

He is not shaped like a human man made larger.

The crown is broad and flared, dark with arousal. A raised ring circles the shaft just beneath it. Two firm ridges run along the underside, disappearing toward the root where the flesh is already beginning to thicken.

Clear, heavy moisture gathers at the tip and slides over the first ridge.

I swallow.

He watches me take in every difference.

“Still curious?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Not frightened?”

“Also yes.”

His claws rake down the table edge.

I wrap my hand around him. My fingers do not meet.

The first stroke catches on the raised ring. His hips move before he can stop them.

I do it again deliberately.