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“I’m not thinking about anything,” I deny, the lie sounding fake and pointless even to my own ears.
“I can feel your thoughts, girl. I can taste your fear.”
Having him rumbling behind me does not comfort me, even a little bit. It’s like being carried around by a hungry lion.
I am reacting to him in ways I cannot help. I’m getting… sensitive. In all the wrong ways.
“I can smell your need too,” he growls, his voice lower and more intimate now. “There’s a freshening between your thighs, isn’t there, my sweet captive filly.”
Oh god. He can’t even really see me. All he has is my back to go by, but he really does seem to know what is happening throughout the entirety of my body and mind.
I am getting wet. My jeans are riding up tight between my thighs. Usually, there wouldn’t be pressure there, but this saddle wasn’t made for two and I’m sandwiched between the king and his horn. There’s friction. There’s fear. And those two things are enough to make me react.
It’s not that I want him to fuck me, I tell myself. That’s a lie. At least, on one level it is. At the animal, flesh level, I absolutely want him to fuck me. I’m responding to his majestic presence and his incredible strength, not to mention the power he has over my life.
He’s sexy. There. I can admit that. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give it up, even if the motion of the horse is making the saddle rub between my legs, and even if I am feeling that flush of excitement that comes with being pressed back against a sexy alien king.
His arms have been around me all this time, but now his hands are starting to wander, and I can’t say I’m mad about it. I’m excited. I’m letting myself go, for once. Not that I have any choice. It’s easy to surrender when there’s no option. Prey animals know how to submit. It’s not something they have to learn. It’s something wired into them at the most basic level. When the predator has them in its grasp, they give up and submit the jugular. That’s not the part I’m submitting. It’s another part, a part just as integral to my existence.
There’s no denying something like that is happening to me now. There is a chemical play happening between us. I am breathing him in and my body is making all kinds of decisions that have nothing to do with my brain.
His grip shifts. He no longer has a big, brawny arm wrapped around my waist. He has it down between my thighs. I gasp as I feel every part of that region tighten at the unexpected touch over my jeans. The fabric is thick, but not so thick that his touch isn’t sending bolts of excitement through me. I can feel him. Holy shit, I can feel him. Can he feel me?
The king seems to have an unerring understanding of my anatomy. I guess that’s the curse of shared ancestry. He understands me as female, and he knows my parts.
At first, the grip is simply a grip, but as we ride he starts to rub between my thighs, the smooth pads of his furred fingers finding and exploring the folds of my sex. Jesus. What the fucking hell. I want to fight, but I also want this. So. Fucking. Bad.
“What are you doing?” I whisper the question, not knowing if he can even hear me, let alone respond.
“Exploring my newly conquered territory,” he rumbles back to me. “Does this feel good, Blaire?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes before the thought. It is an immediate response that comes at the king’s command. He is controlling me without even trying. His presence is so completely, naturally dominant that I feel my will, tough as it is, slipping away.
His simple proximity is dangerous. I cannot trust it. I cannot trust him, and I certainly cannot trust myself.
That answer emboldens him - if he needed such a thing. He lifts his massive hand and finds the loose waistband of my pants, slipping those thick furred fingers down to my sex. The other arm wraps up around my breasts, holding me there, cupping the soft tender rounds.
I let out a moan, and then something like a hiss as I feel his fur find mine.
“You are pelted here,” he murmurs in my ear.
I don’t reply. I can’t reply. What do you say to that? Soon enough, he is moving past the curling down of my outer lips and finding the soft, slick flesh of my interior.
His exploration is methodical but sensual. He is inspecting me, finding what parts do what. I hear him rumble as he feels my nipple rise hard against his palm through my shirt.
“Your body is soft and sweet,” he tells me, narrating the exploration of my body with every touch and caress. I tense when I feel him find the entrance of my body, and notice that he does not press further. He moves his attention back to the sensual button at the apex of my lower lips and toys with me there, using the wetness of my arousal to tease and rub me toward a shivering, shuddering climax.
