Page 11 of Feral Keep

He drives in deeper. My back arches off the furs, my body responding to the depth of him before my mind can weigh in.

He’s so far inside me. Places that don’t have nerve endings, or shouldn’t. The tip of his cock presses forward—flexing, curving against the front wall, a thick blunt pressure that pushes from the inside. Not just the blind thrust of the rut. Seeking. The way his hands sought the fracture in my ribs. His cock is looking for something inside me with the same focused intention.

His hands lock on my hips, his crimson fingers spanning my hipbones entirely, holding me in place with a grip that would shatter me if he squeezed. He doesn’t squeeze. He holds. Steady. His cock finds its depth and settles there. A pulse of heat deep in my belly. His cock flexing once, adjusting, pressing outward against my walls like it’s taking the shape of me.

I lie under the wall of him and breathe. He fills my vision. Crimson skin. Silver hair falling around his face. The white horns catching the filtered light from the roof. His scent presses in with the rest of him, hot and thick, gone dark and sweet underneath like fruit left too long in the sun. His wings have opened, the blood-red membranes framing us, closing the world down to him, me, the furs, the place where his body is inside mine.

His cock flexes. Once. A deliberate press against the front wall—the tip curving, pushing, grinding against a spot that sends a jolt straight through my pelvis.

My hips jerk. A sound comes out of me, not a word, not a moan, small and broken and surprised, at a current running through my body I have no name for.

His dark eyes watch me. His grip tightens on my hips. The rut surges in his body, the tension climbing, the hum under his skin building to a frequency that vibrates through his cock into my walls. Into my teeth.

He pulls back. The girth drags, the whole impossible width pulling back through me, the friction lighting up every nerve ending he stretched open on the way in. My walls grip him on the withdrawal. Trying to keep him inside.

My body is doing things I’m not telling it to do. Clenching. Gripping. My hips trying to follow him back. The camp-brain screams: don’t move, don’t move, moving means participating and participating means⁠—

He drives in.

Hard. All of him in one thrust. The wet sound of it—his cock driving into slick, swollen tissue, the girth stretching every nerve on the way in, the tip finding the front wall again and pressing. The impact rocks me into the furs.

My teeth click together. My hands grip the fur hard enough that my knuckles ache. Between my legs: the obscene fullness of him seated, the cock pulsing against my walls like a second heartbeat.

He does it again. And again.

And the rhythm begins.

7

MAEVE

The rhythm is his.

I have no part in setting it. His hips drive the pace—steady, deep, each thrust landing with a force that rocks me into the furs and sends his cock to a depth my body keeps trying to brace for.

The bracing doesn’t help. He’s too big. Too deep. The girth drags on every stroke—a wet, stretching friction that lights up nerves along my walls, nerves nothing has ever reached before.

The camp-filter runs. Or tries to. Go somewhere else. Let the body take it. This is just another thing being done to you. Wait for it to end.

I’ve used this before. Every woman in the camp knew how to go somewhere else. You stare at a point on the wall or the ceiling and let the physical event happen underneath you while your mind floats above it, untouched.

I try. My mind lifts, starts to float, starts to find the ceiling of the warren, the root-beams, the point I can fix on while my body processes the fact that a nine-foot feral male is inside me and driving⁠—

His cock flexes on an in-stroke. The tip curves. Presses forward against the front wall. The flex sends a pulse through my abdomen that drags my mind back into my body so hard I gasp.

I’m here. In my body. In the furs. His hands on my hips. His cock buried to the knot—the thick, swollen base grinding against my opening, the tip flexing against the front wall like it’s searching for the place that made me gasp.

The float failed. The thing inside me won’t let me leave.

Panic flares, quick and thin, at being stuck here instead of upstairs where it’s always been safe to go. My whole body scrambles for the trick and finds the door locked, and underneath the panic there’s something else I don’t want to look at too closely, close enough to relief that it scares me worse than the fear does.

“Stop,” I say. Or try to. The word comes out a whisper, half-breath, aimed at his chest because his chest fills my whole field of vision. “Stop—doing that⁠—”

He doesn’t stop. The tip curls again. My voice cuts out.

The venom has killed the pain—smothered it under warmth so thorough that only the pressure is left. Enormous. His cock splitting me wider than anything my body was built for, the girth holding me open, a wall of heat seated against my walls.

Pressure that fills every empty space and then keeps filling. My body was mostly empty space by the time he found me, hollowed out by four years of being whittled down to bones with nothing between them.