His hole is open, waiting. Dipping my head low, I lap at him with my tongue. The taste is overwhelming. It is glorious. I push inside of him, lost to my rut, which is taking over my control. I let out a heavy growl as I taste him as deep as I can manage, then pull out with a wet pop.
“More,” he gasps. “Please, Cielo. I’m going to fucking die if you don’t give me more.”
I will not allow such a thing. Spreading his cheeks, I slot my hips against his lower back, using my knees to keep his apart, and then push inside of him. I feel him stretch, hear him gasp as I fill him.
He cannot take all of me. Not yet. But he takes more of me than before. My cock vibrates and pulses as I go deeper, the urge in my body to dump all my seed and breed him now humming through my veins.
My hand goes to his stomach, where a Vyastil female would be round with an egg. She would carry it for several weeks, then lay it in a nest to be hatched.
I close my eyes and send an image to Dante of his stomach, round and filled, and he groans loudly, fucking his hips backward. “Yes, fuck yes. God, breed me.”
“I cannot,” I respond, my regret profound.
He sobs against the counter as he wriggles his hips back and forth, trying to take even more of me. “I know, I know. But…can you try?”
I will always try. I cannot help it. It is a miracle that the scent of him doesn’t send me into a constant rut. With a breath and another growl, I sink my claws into his hips, and he moans loudly as I begin to push in deeper.
My hips snap, moving his body in time with mine, and I feel my release rising. “I am going to spill,” I tell him, but I do not think it is in any human tongue.
He is too far gone to notice. Reaching around, I take his fat cock in my hand, and I realize it is wet. He has spilled at least once.
I gather the cum on my fingers and lick them clean as my eyes slam shut, and I take one more short breath before I expel inside of him.
He shouts, his head falling back against my shoulder as his body twitches, and I take his cock once more as it spills endlessly.
The cum pools against my palm, and I bring it to my lips as I spin him, drinking it down, desperate for more. Dante’s fevered eyes meet mine, and he swipes his thumb over my lips, then feeds me the drops I missed.
“Suck me,” he says.
I need no further invitation. Dante holds himself up on weak legs as I take his cock all the way to the back of my throat, and I suckle and taste him until he is spent.
He wants to release more—I can sense it—but his body is failing him.
No.
No.
It’s more than that. The cries he’s giving are not of pleasure or joy. They are of pain. I can feel it, like an echo in my head, as I look up into his face and find his eyes tightly shut, his fists balled up against his sides.
“Dante,” I gasp. Rising to my feet, I gather him into my arms. “Dante.” I feel immediately helpless.
“It…didn’t work,” he gasps.
“What?”
“The herbs. They did…last time,” he stops and lets out several heavy sobs. “I feel like I’m dying. This is….oh god, this is worse than before.” His lips part on a cry. “Cielo. Help me.”
I do not know what to do. I cradle him with one arm, grateful he is small enough that I can do that, and search the herbs. I find the zitha and quickly feed it to him, but even so, the pain does not stop.
Not this time.
The pinpricks of blood my claws left behind heal, but Dante is not getting better. A single peek into his mind gives me nothing but agony, and I cannot let him live like this.
I cannot.
“Doctoooor,” I say. Those are the strange, almost barbaric humans that treat illnesses and injuries with primitive tools and medications that often cause more harm than healing.
Dante shakes his head, gasping as he clings to me harder. “Can’t help. Can’t…oh fuuuuck. Take me to bed, please?” His words are thready and weak.
