Page 65 of Chained to the Champion
I needed him.
Zarvash lifted me, effortless, arms under my thighs, hauling me up like I weighed nothing. Not gentle, not cruel, just hunger incarnate. He carried me to the platform, laid me among silk, my skin prickling, fever-bright, nerves sparking. He knelt between my knees, wings mantled, intensity frightening. Focused. Worshipful. Possessive.
His bed was an altar, and I was his sacrifice.
He spread my thighs wide.
“You’re drenched.” His voice was gone to gravel. His hands shook as blunt claws dug into my hips.
His tongue was perfect. Alien. Too long, too hot, ridged and sensate. He licked me slow, a surveyor testing new ground as if this was the first time. My hips jerked, vision going fuzzy. He lapped, pausing only to groan. The sound vibrated in my bones. He sucked and sucked, mouth greedy, chin wet with me.
My hands fisted in his hair. My hips rolled up, desperate. “Za—fuck—Zarvash!”
He hummed against me. Vibration climbed my spine—a tuning fork, set to my pleasure. His tongue traced me, dove shallow, then deep. Flick, flick, wriggle—no human mouth remotely this precise. Each lap stole breath and logic. The ridges tormented, every drag of rough velvet, and somewhere deep: a spark that leapt the gap, half physical, half chemical. Our bond, alive and burning.
He fixed his mouth over my core. Suction, then a flurry of flicks, slow circles with the flat. I pleaded, high-pitched, almost a laugh: “Please, please, don’t stop—” My thighs shook. I was clawing at his skull. The orgasm came, sudden as a solar flare, convulsing everything.
I screamed, a sound ricocheting through the stone.
He kept drinking, didn't let go, a hunter at the well. When I shuddered, twitching, he pressed his face to my thigh, inhaledlike he’d found a rare mineral vein. His eyes fluttered, drag-addled.
He traced me with his tongue, scraping up every drip. “You taste like fire.” Voice starved. “Like mine.”
His tail found my entrance and slipped in, stretching, thick, perfect. I keened, helpless. There was a burn, strange and delicious, almost electric.
“Veshari.” He was pleading now, as if I could say no. “Your scent, your taste—it’s everywhere, inside me, in my blood.”
He drew up, chest heaving, lips glossed with me. “You need to see what’s yours.”
He knelt upright, wings wide. Body on open display: scales black-to-red studded at his hips, that ridge at his cock’s base. The shaft: thick, nothing human—veins swelling like fault lines, the red flesh coated in sweat and more. Foreskin—its alien shape, not just a layer but a living, flexible lip capping the crown, twitching, eager, twitching at the air. I saw the glistening notch, the tongue, lapping for scent, almost sentient, the want built into biology. Pre-cum shimmered at the tip, viscous, musky, impossible. I inhaled smoke, salt, the blueprint of desire.
My hand lifted. I traced from scale-knotted base over the fever-hot shaft, feeling heat and heart and want. The cock-lip nuzzled my palm, sucking, writhing, hungry. I circled his cock with both hands; the lip clung, tongue seeking. I pressed my thumb into the slit—the tongue curled to meet me. Zarvash grabbed my wrist, bracing, not stopping.
His body rocked into my grip. “Veshari—” His voice was a wrecked thing. “If you … keep …”
I bent to taste him. The head was velvet and hot, flavor star sharp, all smoke and salt. The lip at its tip flicked into my mouth—tongue, seeking. I let it. Zarvash’s tail thudded, wings snapped.
Fluid slid over my tongue, briny, alive; I could almost taste the mating bond in my blood.
“Enough.” Zarvash’s growl shook with effort and want. Command and plea, indivisible. “If you keep—” His desperation bled through. “Let me. Let me claim?—”
I slid back on trembling limbs. “Please.” Strange, how thin my voice was. How full of want.
He hovered over me. Cock flushed, dripping—the scent marked me already, musk and fire and a touch of ozone. He guided himself to my entrance, patient through agony. “Slowly,” he gritted, every word a brand new fracture of will.
I hooked my legs high, opening, inviting. The head pressed my slit, tongue whorled over my clit, gathering slick. I gasped, bucked. He dragged the crown lower, circling, until at last it pressed into my entrance.
I exhaled and bore down and invited him deeper. He groaned, sank in, a slow, torturous thrust, the fullness exquisite. When his hips were flush, I felt the scales of his base pressure my clit, the cock’s tongue twining inside me, that living lip teasing, tugging, coating me in him.
Marked. Occupied. Claimed.
He bowed his forehead to mine. “Mine. My mate. No one—” His voice failed, choked by feeling.
I found his wings, membranes trembling. I stroked along the veins; he shuddered, cock twitching. He caught my wrists, pinned them overhead, caging me open. His hips rocked slow, each stroke a seismic fault, vein after vein massaging my nerves, the cock’s tongue licking at my g-spot, a star’s pulse in the dark. My sex squeezed, milking; my body painted in slick and musk and wanting.
His rhythm shredded. Tail lashed, curled tight around my hips, yanking me into every thrust. Jaw snapped. Drakarn curses spilled loose, words older than fire.
Instinct drove me, and I bit him on the shoulder, hard, nails raking his scales, leaving my own constellation of marks.
