Page 195 of Taming the Dark Elf
Her pussy releases a deluge in my face, but I do not stop. I only grow more eager in my ministrations. She thrashes about like a landed fish, losing all control as I push her over the threshold of climax.
I rise to my feet as she stares up at me with half-lidded eyes.
“I love you, Lyria.” My voice carries the gravity of absolute truth.
“I love you, Verr,” she says between pants.
I sink atop her, molding my body over her own, pinning her with my weight. Her legs wrap around my body, pulling me in closer as I glide my throbbing cock inside. We both cry out as I enter fully, her nails raking down my back as my eyes squeeze shut. I could blow at any moment, but I won’t. I am Verginyon, Patron of house Dzaltos, and I am in control.
I thrust into her, pumping my hips with long, slow deliberation. Her body grows taut as a bowstring beneath me. She clings harder, her mouth pressed against my skin. I can feelthe passionate exhalations of her breath, the thudding of her pulse. Her pussy tightens around me like a vice.
We move together, naturally matching rhythm to maximize the pleasure. I’ve never felt so alive, yet so close to heaven at the same time. Our sweat mingles, our mutual cries of passion co-mingle and echo off the stark stone walls of my chambers.
“Verr!” she cries, her eyes tightly shut, her nails digging into my flesh and leaving streaks of crimson. “Verr!”
“You…are mine!” I cry as I release.
“Yes! Yes, I'm yours--”
Her voice is cut off by a scream of sheer orgasmic bliss. I groan, light headed with ecstasy as I fill her with my seed. Perhaps she will bear me a fine son--or daughter.
No, one of each. Or more. If we cannot drive the sickness out of dark elf culture, we will breed it out. Every dark elf on protheka may one day have my lineage, and if that’s what it takes, so be it.
Plus, there will be good sport in their making.
I collapse atop her, grandiose dreams fading somewhat as I return to my senses. We cling to each other, as if we never wish to let go.
“I love you, Lyria Dzaltos,” I gasp.
“You mean, Cutter,” she pants. “My surname is Cutter.”
I rise up enough to look her in the eyes.
“Is it?”
I silence any forthcoming answer with a kiss on Lyria’s mouth. My Lyria, my love.
Forever.
