Page 94 of Given to the Black King

I twist, buck, try to bring my knee between us. He catches it with his free hand and forces it wide.

My body opens under him.

His scent is everywhere. Iron, winter, sweat, and the thick dark note that means the old blood has taken the lead.

He lowers his face to mine.

“Say it.”

“Hold.”

Everything stops.

His claws remain buried in the cloak. His weight stays above me without pressing down. The black in his eyes thins enough for gray to show.

“What do you need?”

“Look at me.”

He does.

I catch one horn and pull him closer.

“Continue.”

“How far?”

“All the way.”

The old voice returns.

“Then fight.”

His claws slide out and sink into the cloak around my head.

“Fight.”

I do.

He takes my wrists again. Pins them harder. Uses his weight until every useless movement rubs me against the ridge of his thigh.

I stop trying to escape and start trying to get closer.

He notices.

A rough sound leaves him.

His mouth closes over mine.

There is nothing careful in the kiss. He keeps his jaw turned so the fangs stay clear, but his lips bruise, his tongue takes, and his free hand tears the front of my gown open to the waist.

The night hits my bare breasts.

He covers one with his hand. Claws curved around the flesh without touching it. Thumb dragging over the nipple until I arch.

“Still want the court to see?”

“Yes.”