Page 47 of Shadowed

His cock presses against me from behind and pushes in and the angle is new.

Deeper. The prehensile curve works the front wall from behind—a rolling pressure, relentless. My toes curl. My fingers scrabble at the stone. The moan that comes out of me is guttural and shameless.

Shadow tendrils pin my wrists above my head. More at my hips, holding me in position. His weight settles over my back—chest against my spine, wings draped, mouth at my nape. His horns bracket the back of my head. I am entirely enclosed by him.

"Is this what you swore would never happen?" His cock finds the deep place from this angle and grinds. "The rookeries girl who wouldn't be taken?"

"Fuck you."

"You are." He thrusts. Hard. "On your knees. On the floor. Moaning for it."

I grunt. The sound is punched out of me by the thrust. I can't pretend it isn't exactly what it sounds like—pleasure, brutal and total, his cock hitting something inside me that turns my brain to white noise.

His hand slides beneath me. Finds my nipple. Rolls it between shadow-dark fingers while tendrils hold my hips still and his cock works me from behind in deep grinding strokes.

"So wet." He pulls back. Slams in. The wet sound of it fills the room. "So fucking wet. Your cunt is dripping on the floor and you're still pretending you don't want this."

"I don't—I —"

He pinches my nipple. Hard. I yelp. My cunt clenches. He groans against my neck—rough, broken, vibrating through my spine.

"Liar." He switches nipples. Rolls, pinches. His cock curling inside me, hitting that spot on every stroke. "Your body isbegging me to breed you. Every part of you is begging except your mouth."

A tendril wraps my throat from behind. Squeezes. My air narrows. The rush goes straight to my cunt. I come—screaming into the stone, my body clamping down around him in waves, his cock still driving into me through the contractions.

He doesn't stop.

His hips piston. Harder. Faster. The prehensile cock adjusting mid-stroke—the tip curling on the backstroke, the whole cock thickening on the push, hitting different spots with each thrust. The shadow collar pulses in time with his hips. I'm making sounds I don't recognise—mewling, whimpering, grunting with every impact.

I come again before the first one crests. The second stacks on top. My body convulses. I sob into the stone. His name is in my mouth and I can't stop saying it.

The second knot swells faster. My body knows it now.

Opens for it. Pulls it in. The muscles working with the pressure, clenching to draw the shadow-dense mass deeper, and the lock engages. The tumbler falls.

His teeth find the mark at my throat from behind. Bite. The bond flares—white-hot behind my eyes.

The two-wave release. Cool magic flooding cold and clean, then hot seed rushing in behind it—filling me, stuffing me, the knot holding everything sealed. His cock pulses. Releases. Pulses again. Each wave filling me fuller. His cum so deep inside me it presses against something in my chest. Still releasing. Still sealing it in.

I come sobbing his name and the bond opens like a lock I've been picking my whole life. Every tumbler. Every mechanism. The whole structure clicking into place with the precision and inevitability of a Bramah yielding to the right key.

The heat banks again. Low. Not gone.

We lie in the dark. His knot holds. His cock shifts. I float.

I don't know how long. The shadows have made a nest around us—a cocoon. His wings spread like a floor and ceiling and we're suspended and I'm warm and full and ruined.

The third time.

He turns me on my side. One wing beneath us—warm, membranous, blood-heated silk. The other folds over. His chest against my back. His arm around my waist.

His cock pushes in from behind. The curve different from this angle. Shorter strokes. The tip working a spot I didn't know I had—a slow, grinding, circular pressure that makes my breath come in gasps.

His hand slides up my ribs. Cups my breast. His thumb finds my nipple and rolls it—slow, firm—while his cock works inside me. His other hand finds my throat.

Not the shadow. His hand. Palm over the mark.

The mark pulses under his touch—cold and alive—and the sensation travels from my throat down my spine to my cunt and I clench around him and he groans against the back of my neck. Not controlled. Broken. A male remembering what his body was built for.