Page 97 of Given to the Black King

His back teeth clamp the muscle. The fang points remain outside the bite.

His hips pull back. The raised ring catches. The underside ridges scrape deep.

Then he takes me the way I asked.

The first hard stroke knocks the air out of me.

The next finds deeper.

He holds my hips exactly where he wants them and drives into me with the force he has spent two weeks containing. My hands slide on the wool. I cannot brace. I cannot get away from the pressure or the sound of him behind me.

I do not want to.

His growl never stops. It breaks with each thrust, rougher when I tighten, almost a snarl when I push back to meet him.

I reach behind me.

He catches both wrists in one hand and pins them at the small of my back.

The position opens me further.

The stretch drags a broken sound from me.

He pauses for one breath.

I turn my face enough to speak.

“Continue.”

He does.

Harder.

The old voice comes down over me.

“Take it.”

My body answers before my mouth.

I take every stroke. The fullness. The scrape of his hair against my thighs. His hand locked over my wrists. His scent worked into my skin. The marks burning at shoulder, breast, hip, and both thighs.

He lets go of my wrists and reaches beneath me.

One arm hauls me up against his chest. The angle changes. His fingers find me again while he keeps thrusting.

My head falls back against his shoulder.

His mouth opens beside my pulse.

Fangs near. Never touching.

“Mine,” the old blood says.

I turn my face toward him.

“Say it right.”

His hand tightens over me.