His mouth crushes mine, and the air disappears. There’s nothing gentle in it now. He’s brash, greedy, taking everything I offer and demanding more.
His tongue slides against mine, hot and rough and perfect. His hands are on my waist, then my ass, then under the delicate fabric of the dress—his claws careful, reverent.
I fumble with the catches on his tunic, yanking it open to reveal the ridged, red-scaled chest beneath. He’s gorgeous. Broad. Power made flesh. My hands slide over his skin—hot, ridged, smooth in some places, rough in others. His scales glow faintly gold under the lamp light, as if the heat between us is lighting him up from the inside out.
“Off,” he snarls softly, tugging at the hem of my dress.
I raise my arms, and he lifts it up, slow—torturously slow—until it pools on the floor. His eyes devour me.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re perfect.”
I flush. “You’ve seen me naked before.”
“Not like this. Not when you’re mine.”
He kneels, kisses the line of my stomach, then lower. His fingers hook into my panties and slide them down. When his mouth replaces his hand, I nearly fall.
“Troka—” I gasp, fingers tangling in his horns.
His tongue is hot, wide, devastating. He groans against me like my taste is a drug, and I arch into his mouth, hips bucking. His hands clamp down on my thighs, holding me in place while he licks me slow, then fast, until I’m trembling.
“Stars—don’t stop, don’t you dare?—”
He doesn’t.
He drives me over the edge with a flick of his tongue and the growl that vibrates straight through my pussy. I come hard, grinding against his mouth, breath shattered, head falling back.
Before I can recover, he lifts me onto the bed, his eyes wild now. His cock—massive, ridged, pulsing—is freed from his pants with one flick of his claws.
I gape. “How the hell is that gonna fit?”
He smirks. “We’ll make it work.”
He stretches over me, one arm braced by my head, the other hand guiding himself to my entrance. He rubs the tip against my pussy, coating himself in my slick.
“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Forever.”
“Then take me,” I whisper, voice shaking.
He presses in, slow, careful. The stretch is unbelievable—almost too much. But I want it. I want all of him.
My breath hitches. “Troka?—”
“I’ve got you,” he growls, pushing deeper. “You feel so fucking good. So tight. So wet.”
He seats himself fully inside me with a deep, grinding thrust, and I moan—loud, raw, helpless. His cock fills me, stretches me, claims every inch.
“Stars,” I gasp. “You’re—huge.”
He grins, eyes glowing. “You can take it. You’re strong. You’re mine.”
He starts to move.
Slow at first—deep, deliberate thrusts that make me cry out. Then faster, rougher, until the bed rocks under us and the sound of our bodies slapping together fills the room.
I wrap my legs around his waist, meeting every thrust, chasing the friction, the burn, the desperate need. My hands claw down his back, and he groans—low and primal.
“Say it,” he pants.
