Page 37 of Chained to the Horned God
I slide my hand up his broad chest, feeling the dense muscle beneath the thin fur. My fingers trace the silver scar down the center of his brow. “It’s real,” I whisper. “I’m yours. Right now. All of me.”
A tremor runs through him. His cock, already hard against my thigh, pulses with the admission. It's huge—thick, alien, velvety-dark and hot against my skin. The sheer size of him should intimidate me. But instead, it fills me with want so deep it aches.
His hands move slowly, reverently, as he undresses me piece by piece. His claws never scratch, only glide, catching the fabric of my tunic until it pools around my waist. His gaze rakes over my body like prayer, eyes dark with desire and something deeper—worship.
“You’re so small,” he murmurs, voice almost broken. “So soft. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” I say, guiding his palm to my breast. “You never could.”
His touch is fire. His fingers curl gently, cupping my chest, thumb brushing my nipple until it peaks under his attention. I sigh, arching into him, needing more. Always more.
He kisses me again, harder this time. Hungrier. His tongue explores my mouth, tasting me like a starving man at last allowed to feast. I feel his cock twitch against my stomach and reach down, fingers wrapping around the base.
Gods.
It takes both hands.
His breath shudders out of him as I stroke, slow and deliberate. “I’ve dreamed about this,” I whisper, pumping him. “About you inside me. Filling me. Breaking me open and putting me back together.”
Barsok groans, pressing his forehead to mine. “You’ll have to guide me.”
“I will,” I say. “But first, lie down.”
He hesitates, then obeys, the cot creaking beneath his massive weight. I straddle him, my thighs spread wide across his hips. I kiss his chest, tasting salt and ash and the ghosts of his past. My hair falls around his face like a curtain, and I feel his heartbeat echo through his chest beneath mine.
“I want to taste you,” I say.
He growls low in his throat, but nods, surrendering to me.
I slide down between his legs, his cock heavy against his thigh. I wrap my lips around the tip, tongue swirling over the slick head. He jerks beneath me, hands fisting the edge of the cot.
“Valoa—fuck.”
I suck him slowly, rhythmically, taking as much of him as I can, my fingers stroking the length that won’t fit. He’s leaking already, the taste rich and musky. His hips twitch, restrained but desperate.
“You’re going to make me come,” he warns, voice strangled.
“Good,” I murmur. “Come for me now. I want you hard again when you’re inside me.”
I don’t stop until he groans, deep and guttural, hips jerking as hot, thick cum floods my mouth. I swallow every drop, licking him clean. When I crawl back up his body, his eyes are wild, burning.
“I need you,” I whisper, straddling him again. “Now.”
He grabs my hips, but gently—always gently. “You sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
I reach between us, guiding his cock to my entrance. The stretch is immense—glorious. My pussy protests, then yields, inch by inch. I cry out, not from pain, but from the shock of being so completely filled.
Barsok groans, forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged. “You feel like fucking heaven.”
“Don’t stop,” I gasp, hands on his shoulders. “Please, don’t stop.”
He thrusts slowly at first, every motion careful. My walls clench around him, dripping, pulling him deeper. I ride him, adjusting to his size, his rhythm. My body shakes with each movement, overwhelmed by sensation.
“I can feel your heartbeat in your cock,” I moan, teeth grazing his ear.
“You’re squeezing me so tight,” he growls, his hands now clutching my waist, helping guide the motion. “Like your pussy knows me.”
