When he was satisfied, he moved. I gasped out a strangled breath, and my head fell back. At the same time, my hands scrambled for something to hold on to, and I ended up gripping Inkiri’s horns.
He growled deeply, and his hips jerked a few times, arms steady around me. I might’ve screamed, I wasn’t sure. The position, strange though it was, meant I was at his mercy, my whole body his to control, and it was the best.
I lifted my head when he was between thrusts, yowled when the next thrust came, then stammered while he pounded into me: “You o-oh!-kay with m-me holding on h-here?” I tapped one of his horns with my fingers.
“I like you touching my horns, Sadir.” His expression was filled with single-minded concentration, and from that point forward, there was no more speaking.
My skin was getting damp with sweat, and my toes curled. My cock bobbed against my belly, neglected but still leaking and just generally glad to be involved. Inkiri hit my happy spot all the time, and I was pretty sure I could come like this.
That suspicion was confirmed an indeterminate amount of time later, my mate humming and clicking at me as I came in waves between our bodies, his eyes roving over me with so much intensity it made my chest tight.
I heard my own scream echo through the guest room, long and strained, my voice hoarse from all the sounds I’d been making.
“Yes, like that, sweet thing. You feel so good.”
Inkiri growl-purred, eyes watching my cock twitch with each spurt while I worked hard not to pass out.
He sped up even as my cock was still shooting, and when I felt him pulse into me, it was like this inevitable thing, the exhale after the inhale.
The next thing I knew, I’d sagged against him, going limp and heavy in his arms, and the slight pinch from deep inside me let me know his barb was hooking into me.
My head rolled forward onto my chest, my forehead resting against his chin as he clicked in satisfaction. I looked up.
“You sure you’re okay to hold me?”
“Yes.” He’d moved, and I hadn’t even noticed. He’d sat on the bed carefully, doing his best to avoid jostling me.
I smiled up at him and relaxed as he let my legs slide off his arms so he could wrap them fully around me, could hold me closer and soothe my heated skin. This really was the best, and while it lasted, nothing else mattered.
Chapter 8
“Well, you really are a screamer,” Donna said when I came down the stairs with Inkiri behind me.
Donna was in the kitchen, boiling the kettle, and Wilson was standing at the foot of the stairs and staring up at us.
“I think you traumatized Wilson.” Donna pointed at the chicken with her as-yet empty mug.
I turned millet bean red. “I, uhm, I thought you were outside?”
“Honey, I live here. And frankly, you two should’ve put a sock on the front door. A really, really big sock.”
Inkiri clicked and walked past me, then he towed me the rest of the way down the stairs, past Wilson, who clucked as soon as she saw him. For all I knew, she thought I’d been doing something really bad to him. Did her people tell stories about the big factories they sent the older chickens to? The factories chicken wings were made in?
“Donna, do not joke. My mate is already sensitive when it comes to talking about his pleasure.”
Donna giggled, and Wilson followed us as we walked over to the kitchen table.
“Communication, Rory. It’s so important in a relationship,” Donna told me. I was trying to hide behind Inkiri, but he kept pulling me against his side. “Especially with these guys. Although I really drilled the consensual carrying into them.” She did a little bow. “You may thank me.”
I flushed deeper, wondering how she knew, but then I realized she wasn’t talking about Inkiri holding me while being speared on his cock, just…the normal-type carrying when walking would have sufficed.
I cleared my throat. “Thank you very much. He definitely asked when we first met.”
Donna chuckled to herself and poured boiling water over her tea bag.
The sound of the conservatory door and then the glass door into the living room opening saved me from any more discussions about carrying or pleasure.
Kinnek walked into the kitchen, making about as much noise as Vergis normally did, which was none at all. “Good, you’re dressed already. Buttercup, you really are happy with your bagu mate, aren’t you?” I almost breathed a sigh of relief at the seemingly tame statement from Kinnek—or any bagu, really—but then he tacked on: “Even with his barb?”
