Page 65 of Given to the Black King

“Let me hear you.”

Then he takes me from behind.

There is nothing gentle left except the placement of his claws and fangs.

His palm pins me while the points curve above my skin. His hips strike mine hard enough to bruise. The underside ridges grind over the same deep place until every thrust drives a broken sound from my mouth.

I push back to meet him.

He snarls.

The old blood is in his voice now. Less language. More command.

“Open.”

I spread my knees wider.

“Good.”

The praise makes me clench around him.

He loses rhythm for one stroke.

I do it again on purpose.

His hand leaves my hair and comes around my body. Two fingers circle my clit, slower than his hips.

Hard thrusts. Slow fingers.

The combination breaks me.

The second climax rises more slowly, built by every deep stroke and the patient circle of his fingers.

I try to warn him. The word dissolves when the pressure folds inward. My body clamps around him in long, dragging contractions, each one pulling another broken sound from me. I grip the furs because my arms will not hold me. My knees spread wider on their own.

He feels every pulse. His rhythm falters once, then steadies beneath me while I sob his name into the bed.

“Look at me.”

I cannot from this position.

He pulls me upright against his chest without leaving my body. One arm locks beneath my breasts. His hand turns my face toward him.

My throat lies open.

Both of us go still.

The fangs are already there, long and sharp, inches from my pulse. Venom gathers bright along the channels.

His body shakes behind me. The swelling thickens inside and against me, making withdrawal slower.

“Torgan.”

His eyes find mine.

“Not my throat.”

He turns his head and presses his mouth against the old mark on my shoulder, far from the pulse. Both fang points stay outside the bruise.