Page 61 of Given to the Black King

He pulls me off.

I gasp, angry and wet-mouthed. “I was not finished.”

“Not in your mouth.” His voice breaks. “The bite reflex comes with release. I could cut your tongue.”

That is a fair objection.

He lays me back and climbs over me.

His knee pushes my thighs apart. He takes himself in hand and rubs the slick head through my wetness.

The next thickness catches against my entrance.

The pressure alone makes me gasp.

“Oil,” he says.

A small bottle waits on the bedside table.

“You planned this.”

“I hoped.”

The admission is almost shy. From him, it feels indecent.

He warms oil between his palms and coats his fingers. One slides inside me. Then a second.

He takes his time now.

His fangs are bared. Venom shines at their channels. His claws have ripped the mattress near my hip.

Still, his fingers move only as fast as my body opens.

His fingers spread inside me, working the muscles open. His thumb circles my clit until the remaining tenderness becomes pleasure again.

I rock against his hand.

“More.”

He adds a third finger.

The stretch burns, then eases. He curls them, drives them deeper, and brings me close enough that my body becomes soft and slick around the pressure.

“Now,” I say.

He withdraws his hand and coats his cock with more oil, working it over the crown, the ring, and the underside ridges.

Then he positions himself.

“Still yes?”

“Yes.”

The blunt flare presses against me.

The first stretch burns.

My body resists the flare. He stops with only the widest part beginning to enter.