Page 42 of Given to the Black King

His head drops beside mine.

“That.”

“The ring?”

“Yes.”

I drag my thumb over it, then down the underside. The twin ridges are harder than the rest of him, close together beneath my palm.

His breath breaks.

“These?”

His answer is a rough sound.

I stroke them again.

More slickness spills over my hand, hotter and thicker than a human man’s. It makes the next movement easier. The broad crown passes through my grip, the ring catches, the ridges press into my palm on the downward stroke.

His claws sink into wood.

“Look at me,” I say.

He does.

The gray is almost gone from his eyes. His lips have pulled back enough that both fangs show. Breath comes through his nose in hard pulls.

I move my hand faster.

He catches the back of my dress and tears three hooks loose without meaning to. Cool air touches my spine.

“Good,” I whisper.

The old-blood sound answers me.

I slide off the table and kneel before him.

His hand catches my shoulder. “Iona.”

“No penetration.” I look up at him. “You said nothing about my mouth.”

“You cannot take all of me.”

“I had already reached that conclusion.”

Despite everything, his mouth twitches.

I lick the slickness from the broad crown.

The humor vanishes.

His fingers close in my hair.

I take the head into my mouth slowly. The flare stretches my lips. The raised ring catches at the entrance, and the twin ridges drag over my tongue when I pull back.

Torgan’s hips jerk once.

He stops them so hard his whole body shakes.