Page 34 of Scorched
"I wasn't finished with you," he says against the back of my neck.
His cock is hard against my arse. I can feel it through his trousers—thick, hot, the ridges pressing against the thin fabric. He shifts his hips. The head of his cock slides between my thighsfrom behind. The fire magic radiates through the fabric into the swollen lips of my cunt.
"I can't—not again?—"
He pulls the shirt up to my waist. His trousers are gone—I don't know when, I didn't feel him move—and his bare cock is between my thighs, the ridges dragging against my folds, the head pressing against my pussy from behind.
He slams into me.
Hard. Fast. One brutal thrust that fills me to the hilt and drives the air from my lungs. The ridges catch against my inner walls. The fire magic flares. I scream into the pillow.
His hand stays on my breast. His fingers pinch my nipple and twist and pull while his hips snap against my arse. Short, hard thrusts. Fast. Rough. His cock driving into me from behind with a rhythm that has nothing to do with patience and everything to do with claiming.
I'm small against him. His body curls around mine. His chest against my back, his hips slamming into my arse, his cock buried inside me, his hand on my breast, his mouth at the back of my neck. I'm surrounded. Dwarfed. Fucked.
His other hand finds my throat. His fingers close around it. His thumb presses the brand and the fire magic pulses through it and I arch in his grip—my back bowing, my arse pressing against his hips, taking him deeper.
"You think three on my fingers was enough?" His voice is rough. Wrecked. His hips don't slow. "You think I watched you make that blade and all I wanted was to finger you in my forge?"
I can't answer. His cock is hitting deep on every thrust. The ridges drag and catch. The fire magic flares through each one. My cunt is clenching around him in desperate, wrecked spasms.
He tweaks my nipple. Hard. I cry out. He does it again—pulling, twisting, the fire magic sparking through the sensitive peak while his cock pounds into me from behind.
"This is what I wanted." His hand tightens on my throat. "This. You in my bed. My cock inside you. Your cunt squeezing me like you'll die if I stop."
I'm going to come. I can feel it building—the pressure behind my navel, the tightening in my thighs, the way my cunt is gripping him harder on every stroke. The head of his cock is starting to swell. I can feel it thickening with every thrust, the crown expanding, catching deeper on the withdrawal.
"Don't stop—" The words come out before I can swallow them. "Don't—please?—"
He doesn't stop. He thrusts harder. Faster. His hand on my breast, his hand on my throat, his cock buried inside me, the swollen head catching deep and dragging and catching again.
I come on his cock. My body locks rigid against his. My cunt clamps down on the swollen head and the orgasm tears through me in a wave that starts between my hips and reaches my throat. I scream. His hand is on my throat and I scream against his fingers and my back arches and my thighs clamp shut around his cock.
He doesn't slow down. He thrusts through the orgasm—the swollen head dragging on every withdrawal, fire magic flaring through it, my inner walls gripping and releasing in spasms I can't control. I'm still coming. I can't stop coming. And then he drives deep. Fully deep. Bottoms out against the back of me and stops.
The base of his cock swells.
I know what this is. I know and I can't prepare for it anyway—my inner walls stretching around the forming knot, the dense heat of it pressing outward in every direction. My hands slam flat on the mattress. My cunt locks around it and the orgasm I thought was fading doubles back and breaks over me in a wave that whites out my vision.
Then the head softens.
One moment of relief—the swollen crown releasing from the deepest place inside me, the pressure easing for a single breath. Then his cum floods the space the head left. Golden-hot. Fire magic in every drop, pouring into me in a river of heat that reaches from my hips to my throat.
I lie still.
His cock is inside me—knot sealed at the base, shaft filling me, fire magic pulsing through the ridges in slow waves that match his heartbeat. His body is wrapped around mine. His hand on my throat. His hand on my breast. I can feel his heartbeat through the knot.
I should be planning. I should be thinking about the blade and the Kael-ash fold and the questions I don't have answers to.
I'm thinking about the blade.
I'm thinking about the way the iron sang under my hands. The way the fire in the walls leaned toward me. The way the hum in the metal matched something in my chest—a frequency I've been hearing my whole life without knowing I was hearing it.
I'm thinking about the Kael-ash fold and how my grandmother taught it to me without a name. How she taught me everything without names. How she taught me to make things that hum and sing and kill and she never once told me where the knowledge came from.
The blade on the anvil is still humming. I can hear it from here. Through the stone. Through the mountain.
I shouldn't be able to hear it from here.
