Page 63 of Given to the Black King

He moves deeper by inches.

Slowly. Relentlessly. My body opens around the thick shaft in small, hot increments. Every time he advances, the underside ridges drag over sensitized flesh. Every time he pauses, I feel my pulse beating around him.

When his hips finally meet mine, I am stretched so full that I cannot decide whether I want him to move or remain exactly there.

He bows his head, fighting for air.

His base has begun to swell. I can feel it thickening against my entrance, not trapping, but adding pressure.

“Torgan.”

“Do not move yet.”

I move my hips.

His claws rip through the mattress.

“Iona.”

“You said I could ask for more.”

“Ask.”

“Move.”

He draws back.

The ring and ridges drag through me. The sensation is almost too much.

Then he pushes in again, one deep controlled stroke that makes me cry out.

Again.

Again.

His rhythm remains slow because it has to. The bed strikes the wall each time his hips meet mine. I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer.

He kisses me, turning his jaw so the fang points remain outside my lips. The angle changes. The next thrust drives the underside ridges hard across the place inside me that makes my whole body tighten.

“There.”

He does it again.

My nails score his back.

“Harder.”

He stops.

His face is strained. “Be certain.”

“I am.”

“How hard?”

I grab the base of his horn and pull his forehead down to mine. “Enough that I know it is you.”

The control leaves his eyes.