Page 41 of Chained to the Champion
He slid the fabric down. My body jolted when his hands bracketed my hips, forcing my thighs apart. His nostrils flared, a wisp of breath against my overheated skin. “Your scent,veshari, it is wildfire.”
I should have felt exposed, split open in the hard light of alien attention. Instead, want overrode fear. His tail’s tip found the seam of my body, circling, teasing, mapping. Sensitive skin screamed under the onslaught, nerves lighting up like a lightning storm.
When he first touched my center—a careful, swirling pressure—the sound I made was raw, uncontrolled, somewhere between prayer and profanity. My hips jerked, answered by his tail teasing near my thigh.
He watched me, obsessively cataloguing every gasp and tremor. His tail slipped higher, sliding slickness where need bloomed bright. He ringed me, teasing, coaxing, until I was shaking under the effort not to shatter.
“More,” I demanded. Who was I kidding? I was begging.
He obliged, finding a rhythm that matched my racing pulse, methodical, devastating. One calloused thumb flicked a nipple, doubling the neural overload. There was no room for shame.
The pressure coiled, a storm gathering at the root of my body, wound tighter and tighter with each lap of his tail. I was a live wire waiting for the strike.
“Zarvash—” I collapsed his name into a shudder, because language was leaving me. “I'm?—”
He pressed close, voice a thunderhead against my skin. A command and a promise. “Let me see you burn.”
That was all it took. The world fractured. Nerve endings detonated, a white-hot solar flare, pleasure unspooling in a silent scream that left me arched and shaking and utterly unmoored. His tail didn’t stop; he was wringing me through crest and aftershock, savoring every pulse and tremor as if it were the only thing that mattered.
At last, I collapsed back, a slick mess of sweat and don’t-care-anymore, the world spinning down to the size of his eyes, satisfied, intense, unbearably smug.
“Smug beast,” I rasped, not quite coherent.
He flexed his hands, golden gaze burning. “Your pleasure is tribute enough.”
I reached down, finding him still impossibly hard, hot and slick, impossibly needy. “Let me,” I whispered, hoarse with want.
His hand caught my wrist. “Veshari.” There was caution in the gravel of his voice. “Are you certain? This is not demanded of you.”
I cupped his jaw, letting him read it in my eyes, in the way my body moved against his. “Let me stroke your cock.”
He stilled just for a second. As if he’d never heard the word uttered with reverence, command, and laughter all tangled into one. Something wild and terrified crossed his face before the scale-armor settled, and he nodded once, regal, shattering.
I wrapped my hand around his length, mapping heat and pulse and the alien flex of living flesh beneath my palm. His head lolled back, exposing the corded strength of his neck, throat working over a choked sound. “Stars above.”
The ridged lip at his glans suckled greedily at my thumb, as if learning me in return, hungry, alive. I stroked him from root to quivering tip. The lubricant he produced was thick, sweetly metallic, slicking my palm. Every pass made him twitch, body threatening to shatter the sleeping platform beneath us. He made no move to control me. He just … gave himself, every pant and shudder and convulsive tremor a submission I’d never dared win from anyone.
He caught my wrist, not to stop my hand, but to ground himself, his enormous thumb circling my pulse, claiming it as his own. “Veshari—” Raw, guttural. Like he was reciting a prayer with every syllable.
I watched the way he trembled, how he flayed himself open under touch. Power and surrender, the intoxicating knowledgethat the most lethal creature I’d ever met was vibrating with pleasure because of me.
Need coiled in my gut, sharp as fear and just as sweet.
His tail slid between my thighs again, still slick from my own climax, curling possessively around my leg as if to anchor us both. He slid his hand over mine, pumping furiously until he came with a groan, cum spilling out over my hand and dripping down onto my thigh.
We froze, him arched above me, head thrown back, jaw clenched so hard the cords of his throat stood out like cables. I watched his face as he let go, the gold of his eyes eclipsed by black, stunned, unguarded, more animal than man. Hot, viscous seed painted my knuckles and my thigh in thick, shimmering ribbons. His release was heavy, wild, tinged with that sharp, metallic-spice scent that had threaded through every fight, every moment of tension between us, now concentrated, intoxicating.
He sagged, breath ragged on my cheek as he braced himself over me, his sweat-slicked chest shuddering with each inhale. His tail coiled tight around my calf, flexing, still claiming, still anchoring. I traced the delicate cracks in his scales, feeling the heat radiating off him, heat I’d fed, stoked, dared into eruption.
For a beat, nothing existed but the aftermath: the sticky wet between my thighs; the way his chest rose and fell, brushing my breast with every exhale.
Zarvash shifted, careful, easing his weight off mine but keeping an arm across my waist, his tail a loose, possessive loop. I stared at the ceiling, counting long cracks, marking time by every hitch in his breath. The air was thick with us, with what we’d done, with the promise of more and the certainty that nothing in this broken city would ever be the same.
Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say.
For now, his body was a shield, his breath anchored to my skin, and the world beyond the bolted door could burn.
15
