Page 24 of Scorched
I try to crawl forward. The movement drags my cunt along the ridge and the sound I make has no language in it.
He thrusts.
Second ridge. Third. My fists slam into the stone. Spine arches. Each ridge carries its own pulse of fire magic and the pulses layer on top of each other and I'm sobbing—face pressed to the stone, tears running into the grit, my body breaking apart around something I can't stop wanting.
"I hate you." Into the stone. Broken. I say it again: "I hate you I hate you I?—"
The fourth ridge.
My cunt locks around it and the orgasm hits so hard my vision whites. He doesn't stop. Fifth. Sixth. The full length of him buried inside me and his hands on my hips holding me still for the rhythm he chooses, which is relentless and deliberate and has nothing to do with mercy.
My hands go flat on the stone. I start pushing back.
The forge fire roars. The mountain shakes. The sounds I'm making have nothing left of the operative in them—I stopped being an operative somewhere between the third orgasm and the fourth, left her back there on the stone with the blade and the nightdress and the fiction that any part of my training was built for this.
The head of his cock begins to change.
Not the base. The head—thickening, catching on the withdrawal, pressing against a place deep inside me on everypull-back that makes coherent thought impossible. I'm down to fragments. Sensation. The fire magic building on itself. The slick pooled on the stone beneath my knees. Short strokes now, the swollen head dragging deep, and I come again into the stone without warning—screaming, hands clawing—and when it passes I'm still pushing back, still wanting more, and I hate my body so thoroughly I almost laugh.
Almost.
"Please." The word rips out before I can stop it. I hear the horror in my own throat. "Please?—"
"Please what." He isn't steady. The nine centuries are gone from his voice—stripped, fractured, something underneath it that has never addressed an Assembly. "Say it."
I press my forehead to the stone.
I'm not going to say it.
He thrusts. Short. Deep. The swollen head grinds against that place. I scream into the floor and come and when the orgasm passes I'm still wanting and I'm still furious and I'm going to say it.
"Your knot." Through my teeth. Through the tears. Through the fury that's the last thing of mine left on this stone floor. "Give me your knot or I swear to every dead god I will find a way to kill you that works."
The base of his cock begins to swell.
12
IGNUS
Twenty minutes. She's come three times on the forge floor. She's still fighting.
"Please—" The word rips out of her. She doesn't mean to say it. I can hear the horror at her own mouth—the fury at the begging—but her body's outrun her pride. "Please?—"
"Please what." I'm not steady. My rut is a wall of fire behind my eyes. The head of my cock is so swollen it catches at her cunt on every withdrawal—a secondary lock, holding me half inside her. Her body grips me, trying to pull me deeper, trying to take what I haven't given yet. "Say it."
She shakes her head. Her jaw locks. She presses her forehead to the stone. She won't say it. She won't?—
I thrust. Short. Deep. The swollen head grinds against that place inside her. The ridges pulse fire into her. She screams into the stone, her whole body seizing, and she comes so hard her arms go limp, her brown cheek pressed to the floor, her hips held up only by my hands. When the orgasm passes she's gasping, wrecked. She turns her head and looks at me over her shoulder with eyes that have lost focus and found it again.
"Your knot." Broken. Wrecked. Through her teeth, through the tears, through the fury that hasn't died even now. "Give me your knot or I swear to every dead god I will find a way to kill you that works."
The base of my cock begins to swell.
I stop holding it back.
For twenty minutes she's been fighting me and for twenty minutes her cunt has been doing the opposite—soft and scalding and gripping every ridge on every thrust like it's trying to hold me there, like her body figured out what it wanted before she'd finished composing her first threat. She's soaked. Has been since the second orgasm. Her slick is heat-bright and thick and the smell of it fills the forge and drives the rut higher every time I breathe. She can hate me all she wants. Her body declared its position an hour ago.
So I give it what it's been asking for.
