Page 75 of Given to the Black King

The old blood pulls against the words. I keep my hips still.

“Yes.”

She pours oil into her palm, warms it, and coats me from crown to root. Her fingers pause over the muscular flare at the base.

“It has already started.”

“Yes.”

“How close are you?”

“Too close for patience.”

“Then you will practice.”

She shifts forward and rubs the slick crown through her wetness.

Every muscle in my body locks.

“Iona.”

“Hands on my waist.”

I obey.

“Claws out.”

“No.”

“The flat sides. Points away.”

Her body hovers over mine. She waits.

I put both palms on her waist. The claws curve along her sides, points angled outward.

“Hold me.”

I do.

She lowers herself onto me.

The stretch catches her breath. She stops with the head barely inside.

Her body is still sore from the night before. I feel the tension in every small movement.

“Too soon,” I say.

“No.” She breathes. “Slower.”

She rocks against the first thick stretch, easing herself open until the ring presses at her entrance.

Her face tightens.

I start to lift her.

She slaps my shoulder. “Stay.”

I stay.