Page 43 of Given to the Black King

I use both hands on what I cannot fit, one around the thick shaft, the other lower, where the root has begun to swell under the skin.

The whole base is thickening, muscle tightening as his climax approaches.

I press my thumb there.

His grip in my hair becomes painful.

“Less,” I say, pulling back.

He releases me instantly.

“Sorry.”

The word is ragged.

I take him into my mouth again.

This time his hand rests open against the back of my head. No force. The claws remain hooked into his own palm.

I work the crown and ridges with my tongue, use my hands over the rest, and watch his face come apart.

The root thickens further beneath my lower hand.

“What happens there?” I ask, wet-mouthed.

“Closer to release, it swells.”

“Would it trap us?”

“Not before the bond. It would make withdrawal slower.” His eyes close when I stroke the base again. “After the bite, fully... yes.”

The answer sends heat between my legs.

He smells it.

His fangs bare farther.

“Iona.”

“I’m listening.”

“You are pleased by that.”

“Very.”

He makes a sound that is almost pain.

Then his free hand goes under my skirt.

He lifts me back onto the table with one arm and puts two fingers inside me before I settle.

I gasp and tighten my hand around him.

We find a rough rhythm. My hand works over crown, ring, ridges, and swelling root. His fingers drive into me, his thumb striking the place still sensitive from his mouth. My forehead presses to his.

“More.”

He gives it.