Page 28 of Scorched
I cry out. Finally. The sound tears loose—raw, broken, not a word, barely human. My hips are bucking against him. My cunt is clenching around his cock in desperate, wrecked spasms. He's so deep the pressure behind my navel makes my vision swim.
The head is already swelling.
Already.
I can feel it thickening inside me, the crown expanding, the golden-hot precum spilling. It's been seconds. He's been inside me for seconds and his head is swelling and the catch is going to come and I'm going to lose my mind?—
His hands pin my wrists to the bed. His face is above mine. His golden eyes boring down into me. His hips draw back—the ridges drag—and he thrusts again, hard, bottoming out, and the swollen head catches deep inside my cunt and my vision goes white and my body bows off the bed and his mouth is at my ear.
"Now," he says. "We begin."
14
IGNUS
Ihold her wrists to the bed and watch the head of my cock swell inside her.
Her eyes are wide. Not with fear—she's been past fear since the forge floor. With the specific overwhelm of a body that's already been taken apart and is being taken apart again. Her pupils are blown. Her lips are bitten raw.
Her cunt is clenching around me in wrecked, desperate pulses and every one of them moves through the ridges, through the fire magic, through the place where my body ends and hers begins—which is nowhere, now. There's no boundary. The head is swelling and she's gripping me so tightly the sensation is blinding.
She's extraordinarily tight. Slick and hot and gripping the ridges in a full-length clench that locks every nerve in the shaft and drags the fire magic up through the base and I could end this now, easily, if I let go of the rut's leash for even a second. I don't. I hold it. I hold myself exactly at the place where the swollen head is caught inside her and I breathe through the clench of her body and feel every pulse.
I draw back. Slowly. The ridges drag against her inner walls—each one distinct, pulling friction and fire magic through her in slow sequence—and she makes a sound, broken and liquid, a sound that empties her of pride. The swollen head catches. She shudders. Her hips lift off the bed, chasing the thrust, and her wrists strain against my grip.
"Stay," I tell her.
She doesn't. She bucks. She twists. She tries to free her hands and I hold them and thrust again—deep, controlled, the head catching against the place inside her that makes her scream.
She screams. Her back arches. Her thighs lock around my hips. Her body pulls me deeper. She's so wet, so hot, soaked in slick and my earlier release—every thrust makes a sound that sends the rut higher and tightens the clench at the base of my cock and I want to bury myself to the hilt and not move for an hour. I want to take her apart one ridge at a time. I want to drag out every edge of this until neither of us has a name left.
Nine centuries. I've had nine centuries of ruts and none of them felt like this. The heat of her cunt around the ridges of my cock is doing something to my fire magic I haven't felt in nine centuries.
The magic is reaching.
Not for her body. For something inside her body. Something buried so far down I almost miss it—a faint hum, low and metallic, the living hum of worked iron. Not human. Not purely Fae. Something older. Something I destroyed six hundred years ago and somehow missed.
Bloodwork.
The fire magic in my ridges flares. Not from arousal—from recognition. The way metal sings when it finds another piece forged in the same heat.
Her cunt clenches around me and something rings through my fire magic like a bell struck in a stone room—a frequency I know. I go still.
She makes a sound of frustration. Her hips grind up against me. "Don't stop?—"
I'm not stopping. I'm just—listening. To her. To the thing inside her that's singing back at my fire magic from somewhere deep in her blood. It's faint. It's unmistakable. And it explains everything about why this woman has been pulling at my rut since the night she put a blade to my throat and her body ran hot against my hand.
I bury myself in her. Thrust hard—once, twice, three times—the head catching, dragging, catching again. She comes apart on the third stroke, her cunt locking around me in tight rhythmic spasms that squeeze every ridge from base to tip and pull the breath out of me. Good. I want her wrecked. I want her so far gone she stops fighting her own pleasure long enough to take it.
I look down at her. Pinned beneath me, wrists in my grip, her cunt swollen and soaked around my cock, the brand I put on her throat still glowing with my fire magic. Her face is turned to the side, the flush dark across her brown skin. Tears track into her black hair. Her hips are rolling against me even now, chasing friction she'd rather not admit she wants.
She's mine. She's been mine since she walked into my forge with a blade in her hand and her body already beginning to run hot for me. She just hasn't figured it out yet.
Mine now.
I thrust.
The begging comes faster this time.
