Page 40 of Chained to the Horned God
“You won’t,” I whisper, running my fingers through the short, dark fur along his shoulders. “I trust you.”
Barsok breathes out like he’s been holding it for years. He lowers me gently to the cot, and the chains hanging in the room don’t rattle this time. There’s no rush in him. Just awe.
He kneels before me, stripping away his armor with deliberate grace. The black fur of his chest glistens under torchlight, the silver line across his forehead catching firelight like a brand. When he removes the last piece, his cock falls free—long, thick, curved slightly upward, with ridges along the base. It’s beautiful and intimidating and utterly inhuman.
And gods, I want all of it.
My eyes widen, and he watches me carefully. “Too much?” he asks.
“No,” I whisper, licking my lips. “Exactly enough.”
Barsok leans down, trailing kisses along my neck, down to my collarbone, his breath fanning over my skin. When he reaches my breast, he pauses, as if giving thanks before he wraps his mouth around a nipple, sucking slowly.
My back arches. My hands fist in his mane. “Barsok…”
“I want to taste every inch of you,” he growls into my skin. “I want to know what your breath sounds like when you break.”
“Then don’t stop,” I beg. “Please.”
He trails lower, sliding my tunic up inch by inch. When he reaches the soft curls between my thighs, he pauses again, exhaling slow against my pussy until I’m squirming.
“You’re already wet for me,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent.
He spreads me with two thick fingers, then leans in and licks me—one slow, deliberate stroke that makes me moan loud and helpless.
“Gods,” I gasp, hands gripping the wall behind me. “Don’t stop, please don’t?—”
He doesn’t. His tongue is long, slightly rough, and impossibly agile. He laps at my pussy like he’s starving, curling inside me, teasing my clit, devouring every moan I offer. He drinks down my pleasure like salvation, groaning when I cry out his name.
I come hard, legs shaking, toes curling, my pussy clenching around his tongue. He moans with me, the vibrations pushing me higher until I’m breathless and boneless against the cot.
When he pulls back, his mouth is wet with me, his eyes glazed with need.
“I want you inside me,” I pant, dragging him up by the shoulders. “Now.”
“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs.
“I don’t want slow. I wantyou.All of you.”
He nods, kissing me again, then settles between my thighs. The head of his cock presses at my entrance, thick and hot and impossibly hard. I brace myself, one hand gripping the cot, the other cradling the back of his neck.
He pushes in.
The stretch is unreal. My breath catches. My nails dig into his fur. Inch by inch, he fills me, and it feels like I’m being split open—but it’s perfect. I’ve never been so full. So claimed.
“Valoa,” he groans, voice tight. “You’re so fucking tight.”
“You’re so fuckingbig,” I gasp. “But I can take it. Iwantit.”
His hips roll, and I whimper, every inch of me aware of him. My pussy clings to him, greedy, aching, begging for more. He thrusts slowly, carefully at first, watching my face for any sign of pain. There is none—only ecstasy.
Each movement is a prayer. Each thrust, a psalm.
He fucks me like it means something. Like he’s making love to the soul I keep hidden in the corners of my ribs. Like I’m not just a woman, not just a healer—but something holy.
“You feel like home,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of my mouth. “Like I never belonged anywhere until I was inside you.”
Tears prick my eyes. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
