Page 217 of The Sin Binder's Destiny

He pushes in slow.

Too slow.

I gasp, eyes going wide as the thick head of his cock stretches me open, claiming space like he owns it. Inch by inch, he sinks deeper, dragging a moan out of me so desperate it sounds torn from my throat.

“Oh gods—Orin—”

“Breathe,” he says, voice tight, strained with control. “Just breathe.”

But I can’t. I’m so full already. So stretched around him I feel split wide. It’s not pain. Not exactly. It’s pressure. Depth. The overwhelming, invasive reality of being filled by someone who isn’t just fucking me—but binding me.

My thighs tremble.

My hands scrabble against his shoulders, and I feel it—his back flexing as he holds still, trying to give me time to adjust, even though he’s not all the way in yet. I look down between us and make a pitiful sound.

“There’s more?”

He leans down, teeth grazing the corner of my mouth. “All of it.”

“I’m going to die.”

“You’ll survive.”

“You’re going to rearrange my soul.”

His smile is wicked and reverent all at once. “Good.”

And then he thrusts deeper.

All the way.

I choke on a gasp, my back arching off the moss, every nerve lighting up like I’ve been cracked open to the gods. The pressure, the stretch, the weight of him—it’s too much and not enough all at once. My body clenches around him, trembling.

“Luna—” he groans. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

He draws back and thrusts again, still slow, still measured, but deep. So fucking deep I swear I can feel it in my throat. I grab at him—his arms, his back, the muscles shifting under skin so tight and warm I feel like I’m burning alive.

I love the way he breathes against my mouth, wrecked and focused, like he’s studying the way I fall apart under him. I love the way he thrusts—long, fluid strokes that grind so deliberately against that spot inside me I forget how to think.

“You wanted this,” he murmurs, lips brushing my jaw. “You begged for it.”

“Shut up,” I whimper, rocking up into him.

“You told me I was unreal.”

“Because you are.”

He fucks me deeper at that—one hard thrust that punches the air from my lungs—and his hand slides down between us, his thumb finding my clit like he’s known my body his whole life.

“Then come for me again.”

I do.

Loud and helpless and soaked, my body clenching around him like I never want to let go. The orgasm rips through me, tearing me apart from the inside, and the sound I make is something feral. Honest. He groans when I pulse around him, hips snapping harder now, his mouth hot on my neck.

“You feel that?” he breathes. “Every time you come on my cock, you drag me closer.”

“Then come,” I whisper. “Fill me. I want all of you.”

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