He leans in, tongue flicking out, dragging slowly across my breast before sucking my nipple between his lips, hot and wet and just enough pressure to make me moan. His hand slides down my side, gripping my waist, then my hip. He’s so much bigger than me, but his touch is careful, almost reverent.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, voice rough with hunger.
“I want you.” I reach for him, legs parting. “Kyldak… I want your cock inside me.”
His red eyes flash.
He growls, low in his throat, and it rumbles into my skin as he kisses his way down my stomach. Each press of his lips burns—slow, deliberate, teasing me with the promise of more. I feel his tongue trace the curve of my hipbone, then lower. My breath stutters.
“Let me taste you,” he says, voice thick with need.
“Yes. Please.”
He settles between my legs, and I swear I stop breathing.
His hands grip my thighs, spreading me open. I feel the heat of his breath on my pussy, and then—gods—his tongue. It’s longer than a human’s, textured, the first lick sending electric heat sparking through my spine. I cry out, my hips jerking, but he holds me still, groaning into me as he devours me like a man starved.
“Kyldak—fuck—don’t stop—” I pant.
He growls again, the vibration pushing deep inside me, his tongue plunging, stroking, circling my clit until I’m shaking.
My fingers tangle in his hair—thick, coarse, black as pitch—and I pull him closer. I feel myself nearing the edge. My thighs tremble around his head, and then I’m coming, gasping, crying out his name.
He licks me through it, slowly easing off, then rises over me, eyes wild.
“I need to be inside you,” he snarls, but waits. Always waits.
“I’m ready,” I breathe.
He aligns himself, and I see him—his cock thick, long, ridged faintly with Vakutan anatomy. Golden like the rest of him, the head flushed darker, glistening. He strokes it once, the head brushing my entrance, and I moan.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he grits out as he begins to push in.
My walls stretch, slow, aching, exquisite. He goes deeper, inch by inch, pausing to let me adjust. The fullness is intense, overwhelming. I gasp, clutching his arms. His muscles are rock under my fingers, trembling with restraint.
“Jaela… you feel… gods,” he groans.
He bottoms out, buried to the hilt, and we stay like that—his forehead pressed to mine, breath shared.
“I love you,” I whisper, voice broken with need.
“I’m yours,” he answers.
Then he moves.
Each thrust is deep, deliberate, filling. His hips roll, grinding against my clit with every push. The ridges of his cock stroke something inside me that makes me cry out, over and over. My nails drag down his back, catching against scales and skin, and he moans into my mouth.
“Harder,” I beg.
He obliges.
The bed creaks, the air filled with gasps, moans, the wet sound of skin meeting skin. His hand slips between us, fingers circling my clit as he fucks me harder, faster.
“You’re mine,” he growls, possessive, primal.
“Yes—yours—always?—”
Another orgasm crashes through me, and this time he follows. His rhythm falters, his cock pulsing as he spills inside me with a guttural roar. His body trembles above me, every muscle taut, every breath stolen.
