Page 69 of Chained to the Horned God
He doesn't stop. He drinks down every pulse, every shake of my thighs, until I’m gasping and writhing and begging again.
When he rises, his lips glisten with my slick. His eyes are darker now—almost molten.
“Now,” I whisper, watching him untie the last knot of his belt.
His cock springs free—long, thick, inhuman in shape. Black as shadow, ridged slightly near the base, and veined with silver like lightning frozen in flesh.
I don’t look away. I reach up, wrapping both hands around him, and even then, I can’t take him all. He pulses against my grip.
“You’ll stretch me,” I murmur.
“I’ll go slow,” he says, lowering himself over me. “I’ll make it fit. I’ll make itright.”
He guides the head to my entrance and pauses. Our eyes meet.
“You’re everything I never dared dream,” he whispers.
“Then take me,” I say, voice shaking. “Make me yours.”
He pushes in.
The stretch is unbearable—perfect. My body fights and welcomes him all at once. Inch by glorious inch, he sinks into me, and I cry out at the fullness, the ache, theright-ness of it.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he growls, hands braced beside my head, muscles trembling.
“You’re so fuckinghuge,” I moan, nails clawing at his back. “But I love it. I love how you feel inside me.”
He bottoms out, and we both freeze. For a moment, there’s only breath and heat and the thudding of hearts.
And then he moves.
Slowly at first, then deeper. Harder. Each thrust drives me further into the earth, into the roots, into the sky. My body stretches to accommodate him, each stroke a dance between pain and ecstasy.
Our gasps mingle. He kisses me between thrusts. I sob his name. He says mine like a prayer.
“You were made for me,” he pants. “Your pussy—fuck, Valoa—it’s like itknowsme.”
“It does,” I moan. “Every time you move, I feel more alive. Like you’re fucking the broken pieces back into place.”
He groans, thrusts harder, and I scream his name. My orgasm slams into me, tearing sound from my throat. He follows moments later, roaring low, cock twitching as he spills deep inside me, hot and endless.
We collapse together, bodies soaked in sweat and love and everything in between.
The lavender sways. The sun dips low. And in the silence that follows, I know I am his—and he is mine.
25
VALOA
Spring rolls in on the back of jasmine and rain, softening the sharp edges winter left behind. The air smells clean, alive with blooming things and fresh cut wood. Even the stones seem to breathe easier.
The city holds its breath too.
Election day.
Never before in Kharza’s blood-soaked history, have no blades been drawn to claim power. No assassins slip through alleys. No torches light up the night.
Just ballots.
